


It's Not the Fall that Kills You

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ODS has a mission where the bottom falls out.  Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.
> 
> A/N: For sophie_deangirl. I wrote this for Christmas, but then added follow up parts and am now cross posting. Betas given by lena7142 and pen less.

Michael’s always been a runner.

This is the only thing he doesn’t like about his job. At home, he’s run every route he can find in the greater D.C. area. When he’s on a mission, however, he has no such luxury. He can never run for sport on the job. When he’s running for work, he’s _running._

For his life. For the intelligence. For the lives of his men.

Sometimes all of it.

And he’s running now.

-o-

Michael’s lost track of the miles -- through the trees, their path is circuitous enough that it’s really impossible to tell -- but he knows by the burning in his lungs and the tingling in his legs that it’s been far enough. He’s at point because that’s what he does.

Plus, he’s the best runner among them.

Malick can match him for endurance, and he’s faster when it comes to flat out sprints, but Michael has the clear distance advantage. Rick’s clearly no slouch, but he lacks self control, and his emotions play on him harder than they should, which slows him down. Billy is surprising in this; he may be a slovenly pig most of the time, but his physical prowess is still impressive, but he’s too flat-footed to be really counted as a runner.

Michael may outpace them, but they’re all still there. If they don’t have the stamina or the aptitude, the sheer push of adrenaline is enough to motivate them all.

Because they’re running through the mountainous jungles of Chile.

With an entire militia running right behind.

-o-

This is, perhaps, no surprise. After all, if Michael were a member of this militia, he’d be pretty pissed off, too. The ODS had scouted, infiltrated, and the promptly sabotaged the entire operation. It wouldn’t knock them out of the long term game, but with all signs pointing to an imminent attack against the American embassy, it had seemed like the best option at the time.

And, to the credit of the ODS, it had been pretty spectacular. They could have done something subtle -- like disable the trucks -- but there was too much risk involved with that. They wanted to make sure the militia had no chance to resume normal operations for a long time. So they’d decided to light the place up.

Lighting a large warehouse was always a rather vibrant choice. When it’s full of weapons...well, let’s just say the ODS liked the fireworks.

The militia, not so much.

Michael had planned on there being a minimal contingent on the base at the time. He hadn’t counted on a returning group right as they made their run.

Just in time to cut off their planned escape route and make them improvise through the mountainous jungles.

Michael was good at improvising, but the grounds weren’t familiar; they were outgunned and poorly armed to withstand any real combat.

Some people thought that running was a sign of weakness. Michael knew better, though. He was a proud man, but he wasn’t stupid.

So, he ran.

-o-

Michael judges the landscape and responds accordingly. There are no paths here. Their route winds through the trees, and Michael skirts along the edge of an incline, taking them diagonal up a slope and then straight down over a rocky crevice. It’s not so much about the direction as it is running against the grain, finding the most logical route and taking the least expected option.

And it’s not just running.

It’s jumping, it’s weaving, it’s climbing. He grits his teeth and passes a fallen log. Behind him, his teammates lumber around it, Billy almost falling as his long legs don’t quite make the jump. Michael doesn’t dare look back, but he listens for the sound of their footsteps. Casey’s short, even footfalls; Rick’s thunderous steps coming without abandon. Billy’s awkward paces, heavy but somehow still effective.

It’s not pretty, but it doesn’t have to be. 

It just has to get them out.

-o-

Michael sees the plateau before they crest it. He can read the shift in the landscape, see the horizon line even out, but he doesn’t realize how large it is until he steps out on the suddenly-open ground, gauging the expanse before them. He runs a few paces but lets himself peter out, controlling his breathing as he gathers himself for a firm reassessment of their current predicament.

Behind him, his team comes up just short of his position.

Rick is visible listing, panting with his mouth open. Billy has to bend over, resting his hands on his thighs as he heaves for air. Even Casey is red in the face, hair noticeably out of place while he comes up beside Michael with a scowl.

“I hope that this rest means you have a plan,” he says, his voice cutting even if hindered by his increased breathing.

Michael looks at his team, then looks out across the plateau again. He has a few visual landmarks to work off of; they’re moving in the right direction, but true escape is on the other side of the ridge, which drops off dramatically no more than a mile in front of them.

“Once we get on the other side of the ridge, we should be in the clear,” Michael explains, nodding off to the distance. “There’s a CIA outpost, not to mention a village not far on the other side. Even if they do cross after us, they won’t get very far.”

“That’s all well and good,” Billy says, almost wheezing with effort as he straightens. “But unless you’ve come up with a way for us to sprout wings, I’m feeling like it may be a bit more difficult than that.”

Which is the point. They came in by chopper; Michael knows the area to some degree, but the trails are not officially marked and much of the terrain is known only by people who commonly cross the territory.

Rick comes up next. His face is pinched, sweat dripping down in rivulets. “There’s a bridge,” he says.

“I know there’s a bridge,” Michael retorts. “I just don’t know where.”

“I do,” he says, licking his lips.

Michael feels something loosen in his stomach, something like hope unfurling in his chest, buoying his spirits.

Rick squints, but nods toward the ridge. “I overheard the guards talking,” he says, pausing to take a ragged breath. “The only working bridge is four miles to the north.”

Michael does some mental recreating, approximating the distance and direction from the camp and reorienting himself for his current location. In this, there’s a moment of uncertainty, a suspended moment of aimlessness that roils his stomach and pounds between his eyes.

And then it comes together. In his mind, he sees the bridge. He gauges how long it will take. He sees a viable exit, easily within their grasp.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s--”

Gunfire crackles in the distance.

Michael glances over his shoulder. Rick is wide-eyed and Billy looks bothered. Even Casey appears more on edge than usual.

“Let’s run,” Michael says.

No one hesitates as they start up, northbound up the ridge, toward the bridge.

Toward freedom.

-o-

Running is a private sport; it’s solitary activity. Even in races, the outcome is based solely on how fast you can move your legs. There’s no one else to rely on -- only you can move your legs faster or slow, widening the stride or pushing up on the sole of your foot for extra bounce. There’s only you.

This is why Michael likes to run, he thinks. He likes that it’s just him. He likes that he has the power to control the important variables. He’s in charge of the outcome. The faster he moves, the more efficient he runs -- the result is up to him.

Michael runs; Michael succeeds. It’s within his grasp.

It’s his to control.

So Michael runs.

-o-

Still at point, Michael sees the bridge first. It’s not hard to make out, and there’s a clear dirt road leading up to it, narrowing down to a single-file lane at the edge of the cliff. The chasm is deep and yawning, stretching across with a jagged cliff face to the gentler rocky terrain on the other side. The steep drop off goes down far, the distant floor lost among the trees and rocks. There’s a river at the bottom, snaking its way through the valley, mist billowing from what Michael can only assume is its roaring banks. 

It’s far enough down to make Michael’s stomach churn.

Far enough to make the wispy rope bridge, swaying visibly in the mountain winds, look like salvation--

And possible disaster all at once.

-o-

Michael’s always been a runner, but he’s not so set on his sport of choice to run blindly. There are some occasions that require more thought, more care, more precision.

This is one of those times.

“Okay,” he says. “We made it.”

Next to him, Rick looks physically ill. Casey raises his eyebrows. 

Billy snorts. “I admit, I was hoping for something a little less...,” he began, trailing off with his brow furrowed.

“Suicidal?” Casey prompts.

“I was going to use the word daunting,” Billy concludes finally.

“It’s not so bad,” Michael tries to say, but he’s already assessing. Assessing the thickness of the ropes -- fraying, mostly at the ends -- the distance between the slat floor -- it’s intact, but there are gaps -- and the overall integrity of the structure. There is audible creaking in the wind.

“We have no way of knowing if it’s even safe,” Rick says, half gaping.

Somewhere in the distance, there’s yelling and gunfire. The hair on the back of Michael’s neck go up. This is how it often is; a rock and a hard place, no good choice, just a least horrible choice. How many missions are strung together by a wish and a prayer, a few fraying ropes and rotted boards.

Too many.

And one more.

Michael presses his lips together and nods. “There’s one way,” he says.

-o-

He orders Casey across. The older operative is not keen on taking orders, but he’s done the same assessments as Michael; he knows there’s no better option. Michael watches him get halfway across when the gunfire echoes closer. They need to be on the other side by the time they get here. And if they wait to go turn by turn -- which is technically the safest route -- half the team will be sitting ducks. It’s a chance to have more than one go across at the same time, but it’s less of a chance, as far as Michael can tell.

Michael knows he’s playing the odds. But it’s the best he can do. The lesser of two evils.

It’s also why he’s going to go across last.

Accordingly, he shoos Rick across next. Rick squawks and protests, but Michael shoves him the first few steps. The kid stumbles, knuckles white on the rope, eyes transfixed on the sheer drop below him. Pale faced, he straightens and starts taking tenuous steps across.

When Michael turns to Billy, the Scot gestures. “After you,” he says.

“I’m the last man out,” Michael says.

“If this thing goes south,” Billy says, “it looks like we’ll all be going down together.”

Michael looks down, and his vision narrows. His heart pounds and his palms sweat.

“Besides,” Billy says lightly. “I’d rather no one see just how terrified I am. I’ll be just a step behind.”

There’s no time to argue. Gunfire resounds in the distance, closer still. There’s no time for anything.

Michael takes a step.

-o-

The first step is easy.

The ones that come after give Michael pause. The bridge is older than he thought, and the boards seem to splinter as he steps. The rope is rough and too thin under his hands, and he finds himself holding on tight despite his desire to appear calm and collected.

Still, it’s one step in front of another. They’re almost there.

In front of him, Rick is moving at a slow, steady pace. The wind whistles, shaking them and Michael shuffle steps his way, moving one hand at a time, fingers twined around the weather-worn rope even as it tenses beneath his grip. Ahead, Casey’s two-thirds of the way across and Billy’s close at his back.

They’re almost there.

Then it all falls apart.

-o-

Literally.

It’s a gust of wind.

It’s an extra step.

It’s one person too many.

And then there’s a snapping noise, reverberating off the walls of the cliffside as the rope loses its tension and they’re falling.

The air whooshes, and Michael’s mind goes painfully blank. He’s falling, a surreal weightless sensation as the wood gives way and the rope slips through his fingers. 

It’s getting away from him.

All of it. Too much, too fast, not enough--

And then Michael remembers and his fists clench and he holds on. His grip is so tight that his knuckles ache, and he’s too aware of the fact that he’s holding on with all he has to a broken rope, but there’s a chance, he knows, there’s a chance--

Then there’s a wall of gray and Michael barely has time to brace himself before he slams into it.

The impact is jarring and everything goes gray. When he hits a second time, his vision returns and he manages to turn himself this time, curling in on the rope, offering his back to the cliff face as they hit a third time, twisting and dangling and still holding on.

Still holding.

-o-

It takes a long moment for Michael to open his eyes. When he does, he realizes he’s staring at the rock, his fingers clutching the rope unconsciously with a death grip. 

He’s still alive, though. He’s fallen, but he hasn’t hit the bottom.

He breathes, blinking a few times to gather his bearings. The bridge had given way, of course. Maybe age, maybe way, maybe just damn bad luck, but it had broken.

From one side only. Michael flails for a moment, and quickly sees that at least they’re dangling from the far side of the cavern.

Better still, Rick and Casey are hanging above him. Casey appears entire still, but Rick is still bucking in obvious distress. Michael turns his gaze down, and sees Billy, grinning weakly up at him.

And below him, the vast drop, suddenly steeper than ever before.

-o-

Michael and his team are dangling from the edge of a cliff on a rope that may or may not hold. They’re running from criminals who will probably arrive within minutes. When they arrive, they will be able to pick off Michael’s team one by one, and there will be nothing Michael can do about that.

Which means, he needs to get off the cliff.

Which means, they need to climb.

“Okay,” he says, calling out, his voice echoing uncertainly across the rocks. “So that could have gone better.”

Rick lets out a sob above him. Casey snorts.

Below him, Billy just says, “That seems like a bit of an understatement.”

Perhaps. But Michael’s all about simple things. Life is too complicated; sometimes the direct approach is best.

Sometimes it’s all there is. 

He works his jaws, tightening his grip. He squints up, past Rick. “Casey, do you think you can climb up?”

Casey responds with a grunt, pulling himself up a few times. “Yes,” he says. “It’s going to be slow going, though. I lost some ground when we fell.”

Michael glances down. They all lost more than a little ground. Still, he looks back up. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Go as fast as you can and get to the top. Then we’re going to need you to anchor the rope to help the rest of us pull up.”

“You know,” Casey says, huffing with effort as he pulls himself up some more, “if we all spent more time on physical training--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael says. “But then that’d make you pretty useless now, wouldn’t it?”

Casey pauses, and looks down, truly quizzical. “I never thought of it like that.”

“Great,” Michael says. “Now climb!”

-o-

Casey’s climbing, and Michael turns his eyes to Rick. “You doing okay?”

Rick is visible trembling, and he doesn’t seem to meet Michael’s eyes. “Sometimes it seems like we’re hanging on by a thread,” he says, voice sounding a little funny. “I never expected that to be literal.”

Billy scoffs from beneath them. “Never fear,” he assures. “This is less a thread, more of a rope. Old and weather-worn but think of how many fibers have to fray before it is too weakened--”

As if on cue, the rope groans and something gives, plunging them down. More planks from the bottom of the now-broken bridge fall, disappearing into the distant water and disappearing into the mist without a sound.

They stop short, no more than a few feet lower. Michael’s heart is pounding and Rick has curled up again. Even Casey is painfully still.

“Then again,” Billy pants. “Perhaps it’s best not to tempt fate.”

-o-

This is why Michael’s a runner: the outcome is mostly his to control. His success or his failure is mostly attributed to his own capabilities and limitations. He can limit the outside influence, and use such factors to his overall advantage.

Here, though, dangling from the end of a rope, he’s at the mercy of the elements. 

He’s powerless.

That bothers him almost more than the rest.

But he’ll control what he can.

With a few short breaths, he steadies himself. “Everyone okay?” he asks.

“I’m feeling a wee bit precarious this far down, truthfully,” Billy offers.

Rick can’t even look at him.

“Casey?” Michael asks.

“The more we move, the more likely this thing is to break,” Casey tells him, looking down seriously.

Michael looks back, unwavering. “I know,” he says. “But staying here isn’t an option.”

“I’m just saying,” Casey says, face paler now. “One wrong move...”

The implications are clear. “It’s not your fault,” Michael tells him. “There’s no other choice.”

And the fact is, if it comes to that, none of them will know the difference anyway.

Casey takes a breath. “Okay, then,” he says, inclining his head and pulling himself up. “Hold on tight.”

As if there’s another choice.

-o-

This is what they do. Casey acts. Michael plans. Rick holds on for dear life.

Billy talks.

“You know,” he says, as conversationally as possible when they’re dangling above a ravine while their only hope frays second by second, “this reminds me of that mission to Cambodia.”

Michael makes a face. “The one where you got shot three times?”

“No,” Billy says. “After that, with the plane.”

At this, Rick looks down. “You mean where you jumped out of a plane without a parachute?”

Billy grins. “That’s the one!”

Michael snorts. “You almost died.”

“And so did you,” Rick says. 

“But we didn’t,” Billy tells them roundly.

“I’m not sure how that’s the best story...,” Michael begins.

“It’s about holding on,” Billy says. “We hold on as long as we can, as hard as we can.”

The wind whips around them, and Michael rocks into the cliff, the rope groaning as Casey inches upward.

“And usually,” Billy says, “things will work out for the best in the end.”

-o-

Casey’s almost to the top when something gives again. This time, it’s a whine and a snap and Michael falls before being brought to a sudden stop. The force leaves him breathless, and his fingers fumble to hold the rope even as he keeps sliding.

He squeezes his eyes shut until tears come out. He can feel the skin on his hands wearing away, fingers slick with blood as he swallows a scream and grits his teeth.

He will hold on.

He _will._

And this time, he does.

-o-

When he opens his eyes, Rick is almost sobbing. Casey is grunting.

“Hey,” Michael croaks. “We’re almost there.”

Rick shakes his head, but he’s not looking at Michael “Not close enough.”

Michael cranes to look, sees Casey. He’s closing in, but bridge is listing, hanging by a single rope now, and even that seems tenuous at best.

They’re running out of time, though. The more they hold on, the closer they are to falling.

This time, it may not be enough.

-o-

Casey’s climbing. Rick’s holding on. 

Michael’s fingers are killing him, and his entire body is taut with the effort it takes to hold on, but he’s not letting go.

Then, he looks at Billy.

The Scot is still there, but he’s dangerously close to the bottom of the rope. One more fall, and Michael knows he’ll run out entirely.

One more fall, and they’ll all run out, Michael suspects.

Still, Billy looks up. He’s still smiling, somehow. “Normally I pride myself on coming up with the bright side of things, but I admit, this is looking a bit bleak,” he says.

Michael shakes his head. “You said it yourself. We just have to hold on.”

“Four blokes, one string,” he says. “Seems unfair -- for the rope.”

Michael looks up, sees Casey still climbing, Rick still clinging. The wind gusts again and the rope twists and tenses.

He looks at Billy. “We’re almost there.”

Billy nods. “Funny thing, about a team,” he says. “I used to think success was a solitary thing. I used to be a self-made man. I thought that if I could control enough of the situation, then things would work out better in the end.”

Michael works his jaw, adjusting his bloody fingers a little. “That’s how it is,” he says. “That’s why we do the work we do. So that even when things look bleak, there’s still a way out.”

Billy’s not struggling anymore. He seems almost relaxed. “But it’s not about me anymore,” he continues. “We do what’s best for the team. Sometimes when we’re holding on, it’s for ourselves, because we’re so scared.”

Michael’s stomach feels leaden now, his hands going numb as his arms ache and his fingers scream in agony.

“I could lie to you and tell you that I’m not afraid, but you know better,” Billy continues. “Which is why you know what has to be done.”

“We just have to hold on,” Michael repeats, squinting up to Casey. The rope shifts and whines precariously, and Michael feels the fibers splintering under his grip. Casey’s close, but he’s not close enough. Michael can hold on, and it will make no difference.

It’s minutes for Casey to reach the top. Probably seconds until the rope snaps. From his position, Michael can’t climb to get them to safety and he can’t lessen the load, not without taking Billy with him. He has nothing but his plans and his platitudes and neither are good enough this time.

“Aye,” Billy agrees, but with resignation; resolve. The rope gives a little further and Rick yelps while Casey curses. Michael’s heart skips a beat, but Billy doesn’t waver. “You do that. No matter what. I’ve never been good at following orders.”

Michael’s stomach bottoms out and his throat constrict. His eyes are locked with Billy and he knows.

He _knows._

Because it’s what he would do. It’s what he wishes he could do. To save his team. 

Because sometimes it’s not running. Sometimes it’s not even holding on.

Sometimes it’s letting go.

Tears burning, Michael closes his eyes.

-o-

There’s a brush of wind. The rope jiggles under his grasp. Time passes; his heart beats. He can hear Rick’s labored breathing, and he hears Casey from the top. 

“I’ve got it,” he yells, the words of victory echoing off the walls. “Just hold on while I get it anchored--”

And Michael opens his eyes and sees the end of the rope, blowing vacant in the breeze.

-o-

When they get to the top, Rick can’t cry anymore. He collapses to the ground and turns away from the rock face. He can’t acknowledge that Billy’s gone; he can’t say anything at all. Casey sits on the edge and scans, looking among the trees and the rock, looking for signs of life in the misty shores of the river. He seems desperate, and for all that Casey Malick is a pragmatic man, he seems unable to accept the fact that there’s no way Billy survived the fall.

For his part, Michael stands. The world ahead of them waits. There’s a clear path to freedom; the mission is within their grasp. Looking back, there’s nothing even to see. He didn’t see Billy fall, so he doesn’t know where to look for the body. With the trees and the rocks and the raging river, Michael supposes it wouldn’t make much difference anyway.

Billy’s gone.

It’s a sacrifice that saved them. The weight of all four of them would have been enough to snap the rope. With just three, they had just enough give to get themselves out. Just enough.

It’s hard to be grateful, though.

It’s hard to do anything at all.

The mission is his; safety is within reach. Now, they can run and keep running for as long as they want, as long as they need.

Michael’s knees want to crumble, though. They want to give way. He doesn’t want to run; he doesn’t even want to hold on. Not now, not with Billy...

But across the chasm, gunfire starts as their assailants appear. The first shot nearly takes down Casey, and Michael drags him back, flailing from the edge. He almost trips over Rick, but hauls him back too, moving toward the safety of the trees.

“We run,” Michael says. “Not much farther now.”

“Those idiots are out of range,” Casey snaps.

“For now,” Michael says. “Who knows what sort of friends they have on this side.”

“But _Billy--_ ” Rick says, his voice faltering on the word.

“Would be the first one to tell us all to move,” Michael says, pushing his remaining teammates forward. “Now _run._ ”

Casey looks ready to fight; Rick just looks lost. Michael growls and forces the nausea down in the pit of his stomach. The first step is the hardest, but it’s one foot after another, and if he has to drag the others, he will.

He _will._

After two steps, Casey breaks away. It’s another few before Rick finds his footing and they’re moving through the forest again, away from the canyon, away from their assailants, away...

Michael keeps running.

-o-

He runs until the gunfire subsides. He runs until the trees thin and signs of civilization pick up. 

He runs until there’s nothing left to run from.

Until there’s nothing left at all.

His chest is tight and his eyes burn. He tries to breathe, just like he’s trained himself, but he can’t. 

He just can’t.

The emotion builds and he _can’t._

He’s falling again, but this time there’s nothing to stop him. He lets go, and hits the ground hard on his knees as the first sob escapes.

And he doesn’t even try as the sobs shake him. Rick crashes next to him, and Casey’s not far behind. They’re out of breath and they’re hurting and _Billy..._

Because sometimes it’s not running. Sometimes it’s not even holding on.

This time, it’s letting go.


	2. Chapter 2

The fact is, Billy doesn’t like heights. He’s not necessarily proud of this weakness, but he’s never exactly tried to hide it. His time as a spy notwithstanding, it doesn’t actually come up a lot. In fact, he finds this phobia much less bothersome than his implacable fear of blood and his hard to explain fear of chins. It’s not even as problematic as his claustrophobia, but still.

Billy doesn’t like heights.

There’s always this sense that he’s teetering on the edge, and he’s fallen from grace enough in his life to want to tempt fate in a much more literal fashion. And yet, he’s always known, even standing on the precipice of a great distance down, that it’s not the fall that kills you. Indeed, Billy’s not scared of the fall.

He’s scared of the impact.

Most of his life, he’s avoided the consequences of his actions. In school, he made people laugh so as to avoid the consequence of being lonely and friendless. As a spy, he got to flit from one spot to the next, doing what needed to be done and when things got messy, he could wash his hands and pretend like he was never there. Even his deportation was an act of avoiding the impact. He could have stayed -- could have fought. He could have jumped over the ledge and hoped for the best.

Instead, he’d panicked, looking down at the possible consequences, and he’d walked away.

Dangling from the edge of a cliff in Chile, Billy doesn’t have that luxury now. Because as much as much as he wants to hold on, it’s a question of one life or four. If he lets his friends fall, that’s a consequence that’s simply untenable.

It’s the lesser of two evils. Made simpler by the fact that he’s going to fall either way. This isn’t so much a choice for death as it is a choice to let his friends live.

Really, in that, it’s no choice at all.

So Billy closes his eyes, breathes a prayer, and lets go.

-o-

Michael runs.

Dogged steps, feet feeling leaden. He moves them, though, one after the other as he pushes on. He has to push on. There’s no choice.

Michael knows they have time now -- the one good thing about their rope bridge giving out is that their pursuers have no way of getting across. Hell, Michael doesn’t really _have_ to run -- not for his life anymore.

But still. He has to run. He has to put as much distance between himself and that ravine, between himself and that cliffside, between himself and the place where he last saw Billy.

He has to run because there’s nothing to go back to.

Just an empty rope, a raging river, a deep drop, and a broken team.

And Billy’s corpse -- lost in the river, smashed on the rocks, tangled in the trees -- where Michael had let him fall.

It had been Billy’s choice; and really, if he hadn’t, there would have been four corpses. Michael would have done the same, if given the choice. 

None of those reasons made it easier, though.

Rick staggers, almost falling, but Michael catches him, pulling him by the arm even as Rick squawks, choking on a sob. Michael doesn’t stop to look -- refuses to acknowledge his tear-streaked face and shell-shocked eyes -- and yanks him another few steps until he comes in step with Casey, who eyes him with a deadly, blank look before edging ahead purposefully and almost cutting him off.

Michael lets him. Michael will let him do whatever he wants as long as he doesn’t stop.

Because they couldn’t save Billy, and Michael couldn’t face his failure.

So he runs -- for the rest of his team, for the mission they might still salvage, for the hope of something better, for the fear of something worse--

Michael just keeps running.

-o-

It’s freefall. 

For a moment, he’s suspended, wind rushing past his ears as he falls with his face to the glaringly blue sky. Then he shifts and he’s tumbling, twisting in the air and turning--

The blue swirls; the ground rotates below him. There are trees and the water and he’s on his back again, trying to breathe and he feels the spray of mist and then--

Impact.

Billy expects something dramatic, but instead it’s like an explosion in space -- the light flares and the jolt is palpable but surreal. There’s no sound; there’s no pain; there’s just the collision of two forces so hard and jarring that it defies the senses.

For a moment, that’s all there is. A confused lapse that could be only seconds or an eternity. Billy fleeting wonders if he’s dead--

And then the pain flares.

It reverberates through every cell in his body. He feels it, breaking his bones and rattling his brain. It pulses through his lungs, nearly turning his stomach. Everything feels like it’s bursting, and Billy wonders if he’s come apart at the seams.

Ragged, he tries to breathe--

And gets a mouth full of water instead.

The water -- Billy’s in the river. This is a stroke of luck that probably saved his life--

But he’s too busy almost drowning to appreciate it.

The current is strong and the water is deep and he flails, getting sucked under as he gulps for air and closes his mouth against the deluge. He can’t tell which way is up or down -- everything is dark and light and the water burns his eyes -- but when his face feels a brush of air, he opens his mouth--

Then he’s under again. He’s jostled, spun in an eddy before being unceremoniously sucked downward. He plunges, water sucked up his nose as he grunts, and he surfaces again just in time to see the rock in front of him.

There’s no time to move and his body revolts. He slams into the rock, knocking his head so hard that for a moment he just blacks out...

Until his body takes another breath.

He’s on his back. He’s turned by the current, his arm banging numbly against another outcropping before he’s thrust below the surface as the water turns rough.

Rapids.

It pushes and pulls and he’s down and up, up and down. He tumbles. Gagging and coughing and his lungs burn and his stomach roils and his panic starts to rise because it’s supposed to be the bloody impact that kills you--

Not the damn river.

He’s so angry about this that he forces himself up, pushing above the surface and moving his deadened limbs with a fortitude he doesn’t know he has. The rapids threaten to topple him, but he keeps his head up, and tries to decide which of the two rocks in his double vision is actually real.

Billy’s a lefty, so he places his bet on that, bears down--

And hits hard.

Impact.

It kills you after all.

-o-

Michael has the route memorized, even though he’s never actually been to the outpost before. It was always in the back of his mind as a contingency plan in case things went wrong. It had seemed like a good precaution and some damn good backup, for all the good it did them. No outpost in the world had been close enough when they’d been hanging off the edge of the cliff. No backup had come in time to stop Billy...

Michael has the route memorized, which is good, or he’s not sure he would have gotten there. As it is, he moves at a relentless clip, tripping over branches and rocks as he goes. He’d look down -- eyes on the ground can help -- but he can’t bring himself to turn his head down because in his mind he still sees Billy.

(Still sees the empty rope.)

Eyes ahead, Michael can’t even feel his legs, leading with determination as Casey and Rick follow. Michael’s in good shape, but his chest is tight by the time they reach the top of the ridge and look down a gentle slope. The outpost is situated on the next hill, obscured among the trees but the cleared out space for a helicopter is hard to miss in the Chilean foothills.

“That’s it?” Casey asks, sounding winded as he comes to a stop next to Michael.

Rick comes up next, panting as he leans forward, hands on his knees as he heaves for air. “You think they’ll help us organize a search?”

Michael’s stomach turns dangerously and he has to swallow hard to control the rise of bile. Denial is one of the stages of grief.

“Bastards let this group get away with everything right in their backyard,” Casey seethes. “What makes you think they’ll be worth anything now?”

Anger is another stage.

Michael locks his jaw and doesn’t reply. Instead, he nods out across the last of the landscape and says, “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

Because Michael is angry and in denial and all the rest. He’s all that and more and if he doesn’t keep running, it may all implode. Michael’s lost one man; he can’t lose the rest. He can’t lose anything else.

So he moves, feet moving mechanically as he propels himself forward because there’s no place else to go.

-o-

Billy’s eyes open.

He inhales sharply and gags. His chest seizes and his stomach rebels. He turns his head in time to throw up, but the only thing he tastes is water. He hacks, throwing up again, before sagging back and staring up at the sky, taking stunted, desperate breaths.

He’s alive.

He’s _alive._

He jolts at the realization, trying to sit up. There’s a flash of movement next to him and a hand presses on his shoulder to slow him down--

Too late.

The movement jars his body and he becomes keenly aware of his injuries. The pain is too diffuse to pinpoint, radiating through his limbs and spreading down his spine. His head throbs, vision gauzy and doubled, and his insides feel like they’ve been shredded, the remnants clamped in a vice. The overwhelming sense of it makes him want to throw up again, but the fact is that it hurts too much to move.

Then, someone talks.

Billy can’t figure out what they’re saying, but after a few minutes he manages to get his eyes to focus a little bit. The person by his side is blurry, but it only takes a second to realize they’re not anyone he knows. The face is old and wizened, dark hair streaked with gray and a simple gray getup that is decidedly unisex.

A local, he realizes. There’s a basket and it smells of soap and Billy collapses back against the rocks and closes his eyes.

The hand squeezes his shoulder and he startles awake, blinking rapidly. The sun is glaring still, blue sky too big, and the face is above him, both versions of it twisted with what Billy can assume is concern. Or confusion. Considering Billy just fell from the sky...

The memory makes him shudder. Which makes him groan. And he closes his eyes again, craving the cloying darkness as a refuge, an escape, an--

Another squeeze. Billy opens his eyes and glares this time. This person is persistent, the mouth moving and the words falling over him. He tries to listen, but it’s all gibberish, and the ringing in his ears is louder than it should be.

Then he realizes that the person is speaking Spanish. Billy has workable Spanish, but he doesn’t conjugate his verbs well and he never did like the subjunctive tense. His eyes flutter closed. This is Rick’s forte, anyway--

Rick.

Billy’s eyes open and stay that way this time. He pushes up and even if the pain spikes he keeps himself upright, even as the hand steadies him. It takes a long moment -- and every breath is agony, every blink is a new cacophony of pain -- but the nausea passes and the pain evens out and he looks at the person again.

Squinting, he can see her more clearly -- and it is a woman. Doing her laundry probably when Billy came tumbling down the current. The way she’s looking at him -- like a mother hen guarding her chicks -- he realizes she probably saved his life.

Brow furrowed, he swallows. His vision threatens to dim, but he manages to control it with a wince. “Don’t reckon you saw which way my friends went.”

Her eyes widen and she starts talking with more vigor now. The words are too fast to pick anything out, but she gestures repeatedly at the sky.

Billy tilts his head, looking up the rock face. It’s far. It’s too far.

Billy fell too far.

Everything starts to spin, and Billy starts to tremble. It’s impossible to think about, but he remembers now. Remembers the rope bridge and the angry men with guns and hanging from the edge of the cliff and letting go--

Billy convulses and tears seep out of his eyes. He should be dead. He’d counted on dying.

Few things work out the way Billy plans. Usually that’s not for the better.

This time, Billy thinks he might have got lucky.

Lucky is relative, though. Because Billy is sore -- he thinks every bone might be broken in his body and his lungs hurt just to breathe -- and there’s a nagging pain in his midsection that seems suspicious and his vision still hasn’t cleared. There are injuries, he knows. Broken bones, skull fractures, internal damage. If his lungs are broken, if his brain is bleeding, if there’s a tear in his abdomen -- then Billy may not be alive for long.

This is why Billy’s in a team, though. This is why he doesn’t go into these things alone. This is why...

The woman is prattling, though, and Billy looks up. Water is dripping in his eyes and the brightness is blinding, but he still sees the top where he last saw his friends.

They’re not there, of course, not that Billy would be able to see them from this distance. But that’s the point, he realizes as his stomach roils again. Because Billy survived the fall, and his teammates climbed to safety. Billy gave himself up to save them -- a heroic grand gesture that he never expected to come back from.

That no one would expect him to survive.

No one is coming for him. They might send a team to collect his body -- a dead CIA agent is still an important asset to control -- but they have a mission. They have intel. Higgins won’t spare them for a corpse.

And by the time someone comes to salvage what they think are his remains...

Billy’s body aches with renewed sharpness, ears rushing with blood as his heart thrums wildly in his chest.

 

By the time someone comes, all they’ll find are remains after all.

-o-

When they get there, Rick nearly collapses at the gate, sinking down against the fence and letting his head drop back. Casey glares at the comm system, as if day to day precautions in the Agency are to blame for everything.

Michael types in the passcode with numb fingers. He knows who’s to blame, and it’s not the Agency.

The comm crackles and Michael recognizes the pass phrase. The reply comes seamlessly off his tongue, and the stage reparate is everything it’s supposed to be. Michael’s a good operative under pressure.

As one of the operatives in the outpost comes out, Michael steels himself and forces the feelings back. He can’t afford to think otherwise.

He looks at Rick, at Casey. He still sees Billy, scared and resigned. He still sees the sheer drop.

Michael’s a good operative under pressure. 

Just not always good enough.

-o-

Apparently, the woman seems to believe that since she fished Billy out of the river, she’s somehow responsible for him. With all of her references to “Dios Mio!” Billy wonders if she thinks he’s a bad omen or some sort of message from God. Billy frankly doesn’t care, he just wants to escape this encounter with his life. Because he’s survived the impact, but this woman seems determined to kill him by smothering him.

She’s well intentioned, Billy’s sure, but as she lays him out on the ground her voice is increasingly stern as she feels his arms and legs and presses on his chest. Unsurprisingly, it all hurts, and her frown only deepens as she seems to uncover more of the damage.

Billy’s consciousness ebbs a bit from time to time, but the results seem fairly clear. At least one of his arms is broken. One of his ankles may be, too, but that hurts less than the rest so he wonders if he got lucky with only a sprain. His right elbow is swollen and distended, which would be a problem except for the fact that his shoulder is not even in its socket anymore. His left arm has fared better, though he suspects something is broken in his hand. 

The ribs on his right side are crunchy, and when her calloused fingers sweep over them, he almost passes out. She clucks her tongue and feels his abdomen next, a process which makes Billy tense and try to pull away. It could just be bruising...

Or it could be a bleed.

This should scare him, probably, but Billy’s a bit done up on fear at the moment. Besides, the throbbing in his skull is a good indication of a concussion -- or worse -- so his normal thought processes are impaired, probably taking common sense, fear, and logic out of the equation.

The good news is, of course, that Billy’s never been one for thinking in times of crisis. At the very least, this means he’s no worse off than normal.

Except for the injuries, of course.

Either way, Billy needs to go.

With effort, he pushes back up to a sitting position. “Thank you for your kindness,” he begins, struggling to get his feet underneath him. His right leg gives out and his left isn’t much better. “But I should probably be going.”

Her response is somewhat apoplectic. Billy recognizes a curse or two in her diatribe and she tries to push him down again.

Billy shakes his head. “Really, I have friends who can help me,” he tries to explain.

She doesn’t seem to be open to such ideas, though. And really, part of Billy can’t blame her. He can’t see himself, but the pain is indicative of serious damage. There’s a good chance Billy won’t make it very far, much less the winding way around the ridge to the foothills where the CIA outpost is. There’s a chance the woman can help him, but as remote as they are, the rudimentary medicine wouldn’t do much for internal injuries.

And the fact is, if Billy’s going to die he doesn’t want to die among strangers.

Billy doesn’t want to die at all.

But Billy can still see Michael above him, face tight with understanding. He can still see Rick’s eyes squeezed closed in desperation. He can still see Casey climbing, up and up and--

Billy let go to save them. And now he’ll hold on to save himself.

Determined, he pushes to his feet again. Everything wavers and he sways, but he clings to his consciousness with unflinching resolve. The woman is still jabbering and Billy simply pulls away, putting his numb left hand on her arm.

“Gracias,” he says, the Spanish words awkward on his tongue. “Necesito encontrar mis amigos.” He nods up. “Amigos,” he says again, for the lack of something better to say.

Up close, her face is agonized and conflicted but she nods. The Spanish that follows doesn’t quite compute in Billy’s brain but when she points down the river, he understands.

“That’s the way?” he clarifies.

She nods, waving in that direction again before veering her hand to the left. The directions are vague, but it’s the sentiment that counts.

Billy hopes so anyway.

As he takes a few faltering steps his body flares with new pain, and he has to admit he’s starting to have his doubts.

-o-

The security all checks out, but the two operatives stationed there are clearly not thrilled about the idea of company. Paranoid bastards, Michael thinks. He knows how they feel.

Still, Michael doesn’t see much other alternative.

One of them -- the younger one, a guy named Gillet -- makes small talk while the senior operative -- a woman named Clack -- talks in curt tones on the secured line.

“We heard there was something going down here,” Gillet says, friendly enough. “Though you guys must be on a pretty need-to-know basis. Langley didn’t even tell us to expect friendlies.”

Behind them, Clack hangs up and comes over. “I just got confirmation,” she says. “I’ve managed to arrange for a transport, but the soonest we can get something in here is tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Casey says, getting back to his feet. “That’ll give us time--”

“Whoa,” Clack says, holding up her hand. “No one’s going anywhere. Because the confirmation said there’s four of you.” She pauses, looking at them each critically.

Rick is standing now, right next to Casey. “That’s what we need to go back for,” he says, resolutely.

“Exactly,” Casey says, starting forward. “Now if you don’t mind--”

Clack moves into his path. “Actually, I do mind--”

Casey stops, staring at her with deadly intent. “I _suggest_ you _move away._ ”

Clack squares her shoulders. “I’m supposed to keep you here,” she says, unflinchingly. “I have my orders.”

“And we have a man out there!” Casey growls. The intensity of it roils Michael’s stomach. It’s an emotion -- a passion -- he thinks he should feel. But he can’t feel anything. He can’t do anything.

“Please,” Rick adds, the hint of desperation ringing too true. 

Gillet moves in, as if to diffuse the situation. “He’s trained; he’ll find his way here--”

“He was hurt--” Rick says, the words catching just a little.

“And we don’t leave a man behind--” Casey insists.

Michael’s feels his heart stutter, his chest constrict. He has no tears to cry now, but he feels like he’s being ripped apart. He’d just thought if he could get his team here, if he could get them safe...

But this isn’t his team, not all of it. Billy’s not here. Billy’s--

Clack shakes her head. “We’re not authorized--”

Casey advances anyway. “Screw authorization--”

“Hey, hey,” Gillet says.

“Just let us go,” Rick begs.

It’s reaching a tipping point. Things are rapidly spiraling out of control and Michael is sitting there, watching it happen. He closes his eyes, imagines the wind on his face.

For a second, everything dims. The sound of the fighting, the thick of the tension.

This time, when he opens his eyes, though, they’re all still there. Casey and Rick. Clack and Gillet.

Billy...

Michael is almost nauseous, but he gets to his feet, pulling Casey back and holding his arm out to keep Clack at bay. “He’s dead,” he interjects, his voice sounding rough and foreign. “Fell into the ravine during our escape.” He looks from Clack to Casey and Rick. “We already lost him.”

He looks at them, begging them to understand. Pleading with them to accept. Because Michael’s control is tenuous -- it’s basically nonexistent -- and if he hangs from the end of this rope much longer it’s going to fray right out from under him before he has a chance to pull himself up.

Casey’s eyes are wide, face red and chest heaving. Rick’s expression is trembling, fine tremors racking his body.

Michael swallows so hard it hurts. It hurts. “There’s going to be too much increased activity in the area now that we’ve pulled out,” he says. “If we go back out, it’s asking for trouble.”

“And Billy?” Casey grits out.

Michael holds himself as steady as he can. “You saw the cliff, Malick,” he says, not unkind, but to the point. “There’s no way he survived impact.”

Michael’s not sure any of them have.

-o-

Billy’s not a runner.

Granted, he can run, and he’s done more than his share. When peril is upon him, Billy can sprint with great alacrity. But he doesn’t have the stamina or the conditioning for distance. He doesn’t like the dogged, endless nature, the repetitive motions, the slow burn that always sets in, working through his gut to his legs, settling in his knees and tickling his head.

That’s what he feels now. A deep, weary exhaustion, sapping him from the deepest of his reservoirs, ebbing every dwindling ounce of strength left in him. Everything hurts. The throb has no start and no end, pulsating through him with every footfall, moving up his legs and radiating through his stomach and chest and tingling along his spine. 

Faltering, his leaden feet stumble but when he reaches out to catch himself, his wooden hands fail him. He hits his knees, the impact jarring him as fresh tears come to his eyes and steal his breath. With a sharp inhale, he tries to steady himself, but the movement exacerbates everything and the gnawing pain in his chest darkens his vision and leaves him sobbing.

He can’t stop, though. He can’t. He has to go. To his team. Michael and Casey and Rick. He’s the one who fell. He has to pick himself up.

He has to.

Resolved, Billy lifts his head, looking out at the terrain in front of him. There’s a noticeable uptick now, the ground from the valley rising away from the riverbed with the horizon clearing toward what Billy hopes is civilization.

His sense of direction is off -- though in truth, everything is off for him right now -- but it seems to be the right direction. He hopes it is. If it isn’t, he’s really as good as dead.

Truthfully, he feels almost as good as dead. The nagging pain, the fog in his vision. Every breath is a struggle and his bones feel frail and grating. He wants to sleep, but he knows if he does, it’ll be the last thing he ever does.

He refuses to look up -- the steep cliffs still turn his stomach -- but he takes a moment to look back and gauge his progress. He feels like he’s been running for hours, miles, forever.

But craning his head, he can still see the river roaring behind him. He’s turned away from the straightaway where his rescuer had found him, but he hasn’t made it more than a mile.

The meager gain is a heavy reality, especially since he doesn’t know how long he was unconscious. He doesn’t know how far his friends have moved ahead or if he’s even within range.

He doesn’t even know if he can make it another step, much less another mile or two or three or ten.

He doesn’t know.

But he knows he has to try.

Struggling back to his feet, Billy’s legs threaten to give out, but he can hardly feel them. He rallies, summoning whatever he has left and starts to run again.

-o-

Michael doesn’t particularly like meeting new people, and CIA agents stationed in remote outposts are generally bad company. Michael knows. He’s been there. 

Plus, meeting new people when he’s lost a man...

Michael doesn’t like anything in those situations. It’s nothing he’s well versed in, thank goodness, but even two times is enough.

There’s a cold starkness to it all now. The void is tense, only made worse by Clack and Gillet. No one knows quite what to say, and Gillet still tries to make small talk while Clack watches them warily from her desk.

Help is coming, at least. They’ll get the intel out. The mission will be a success. Billy hasn’t died in vain.

But he has died, and that truth is an oppressive weight that Michael can’t escape from.

Michael can’t escape anything. Even the interior of the small compound seems claustrophobic, and he feels himself itching to move but unable to. It’s an awkward mix of compulsions -- part of him still wants to run, part of him never wants to leave.

Ultimately, it’s not his choice. Clack seems intent on keeping them there, and with extraction coming tomorrow they have to wait it out.

If Billy were here he’d crack jokes and make things passable.

Billy’s not here.

Michael sighs. He’s counted on his team members to play their roles, but ultimately it all starts with Michael. It all stops with him, too, and if Billy’s not here that’s Michael’s fault, and he has to do what he has to do to fill the gaps.

Casey paces the confines of the room like a caged animal, eyes darting with dangerous intent as he slowly circumvents the furniture and seems to map out the best escape routes. Casey’s method of coping isn’t so much coping as it is getting really, really angry and since Michael wants to avoid further confrontation and violence for the time being, he decides to leave the older agent alone.

Rick, however, sits on one of the chairs and stares. He sometimes tries to listen to Gillet’s prattling, but he doesn’t seem to have enough energy to focus. He’s listless and forlorn, and he randomly lapses into a vacant stare, gazing indiscriminately at the floor. He looks young. He looks lost.

And that’s Michael’s fault, too.

Swallowing hard, Michael knows the practical details are taking care of themselves. With extraction coming, the mission will be wrapped up. Later, he’ll talk a little more discreetly with Clack about mounting a recovery operation. For now...

Michael settles down next to Rick, nudging the kid lightly with his knee. “You okay?”

Rick flinches a little, blinking rapidly. He doesn’t look at Michael. “I. Um.” He shakes his head. “No.”

It’s a simple answer; it’s an honest answer. Michael’s gut twists and his chest aches. “You know there was nothing you could have done, right?” he asks.

Rick still doesn’t look up, but he nods.

“Billy knew the rope was going to break,” Michael says. “It was going to kill us all.”

Rick closes his eyes, his breathing picking up.

“He made a choice, Rick,” Michael says, forcing the words out. “He made a choice to save us.”

Rick opens his eyes. He takes a few more breaths before he looks at Michael. “I was too scared to even look down,” he says. “I didn’t want to die. I thought I would give anything if I could just survive.”

Michael does what he can to stay still, to not break. His stomach roils and his eyes burn.

Rick’s lips twist into a sardonic smile. “Now I would give anything to take it back,” he says. “It wasn’t worth Billy’s life. None of this is.”

It hurts. Everything hurts. Michael wants to tell Rick he’s wrong, wants to remind Rick why they do this job, wants to offer platitudes and assurances and something, but all he can do is sit there.

“I didn’t even see it,” Rick continues, voice faltering. “It’s like it didn’t happen. He was there, and then he wasn’t, and he can’t be dead.” His voice breaks on the word, and then everything breaks. Rick curls over, the sobs shaking him, the sound wretched and choked.

Michael’s failure is visceral. The loss is overwhelming. Stiff, he reaches out, putting his arm around Rick, who doesn’t fight him.

There’s nothing to fight, after all. The mission’s over; Billy’s gone; the team is ruined.

Michael holds Rick as he cries and knows there’s nothing left at all.

He closes his eyes and refuses to look as the ground comes rushing up to meet them all over again.

-o-

Billy has this thing for surviving.

It’s not so much a _thing_ as a base fact of his existence. Billy survives. The odds are stacked against him, the obstacles seem overwhelming, and Billy just never lets go. Sometimes he jokes that this is directly attributed to a lack of common sense; other times, he may attribute it all to his Scottish fortitude. Possibly, it’s dumb luck. Maybe it’s even a curse.

But Billy survives. His father locks him in a cupboard and Billy still comes out, squinting in the daylight. He gets kicked out of school, and he still learns enough to keep his head up. His father dies, he splits his knuckles getting into fights; he’s broke at university and his mother dies.

Billy survives.

Then he nearly dies on his first mission and gets dumped by the only girl he’s ever loved. He loses the only job he’ll ever be good at and finds himself dejected, downtrodden and deported. 

Billy survives.

The ODS hazes him; his motel room is cold and lonely. He drinks too much scotch and hardly ever eats a balanced meal, and still Billy survives. He’s worse than a damn cockroach.

And yet, Billy survives.

His bones may be broken, his body is pained. His head spins and his vision threatens to leave him with every horrible step. The ground is hard and uneven beneath his feet, and his stomach threatens to rebel. Part of him wants to fall to the ground and die, right then and there.

It’d be easy, too. It’s not like anyone would blame him after falling off a bloody cliff.

Except, he can’t.

He won’t.

Billy survives. It’s a curse. It’s a promise.

It’s a fact.

Billy survives.

And keeps running.

-o-

Rick’s a mess, and Michael knows that it’s likely to get worse. Rick’s still new to this game; he’s seen people die before, but no one he’s cared about. No one he’s been so close to. 

Besides, this sort of thing never gets easier. Over the years, Rick will learn to hide it a little better, but his tears are just one way of expressing grief and loss.

Still, Rick composes himself and sits, staring blankly at one of the walls. He may drift off for a bit, which Michael figures is for the best. Rick’s grief will be long, tormented and slow.

Casey’s, on the other hand...

Casey stops pacing long enough to glare out one of the southbound windows. His look is predatory when Michael approaches him, and he knows that Casey is not above hitting him if the situation is pressing. He’s not sure what Casey’s level of anger is right now and exactly where said anger is directed, but when Casey lets him get close enough to have a private conversation Michael counts that as a good sign.

Though he suspects that by the end of this, taking a punch might be the easier way to go.

Still, this is Michael’s job. He’s failed Billy. He’s done his best to comfort Rick. Now he needs to diffuse Casey’s anger.

“Kid’s still pretty upset,” Michael starts off, going with something neutral as he nods toward Rick. Casey’s not overtly sentimental, but he’s protective of his own. Having lost Billy, Michael is counting on his bond with Rick to be that much stronger.

Casey snorts. “His teammate died,” he mutters. “What did you expect?”

It’s cutting and sarcastic, but it’s not directly hostile. “I know,” Michael says, inching closer and looking at Casey carefully. “How are you holding up?”

It’s blunt, maybe, and this isn’t what they do. They don’t talk about feelings; they don’t share. Over the years they’ve worked together, Michael can probably count on two hands the number of times he and Malick have bonded, but that’s mostly been a luxury because they’re that damn good. It’s not that Casey doesn’t have emotions; it’s that Casey channels his emotions into rage and ferments them into energy. Casey’s emotions are productive, just like everything else.

But when they’re too much...

After Simms had gone missing, Casey had been a loose cannon. A few other missions had bothered him over the years, but this was the hardest yet. Because this was Billy. Casey’s necessary complement, and over all these years, Casey had grown fond of the other man.

Maybe not fond, but comfortable, which is as close as Casey got to affection.

Casey’s eyes narrow. “We’re going to play twenty questions?” he snaps. “We let one of our own fall to his death back there. How the hell do you think I am?”

The words are pointed, and the raw emotion behind them is too evident.

Michael shifts, easing closer, looking out across the expanse they crossed to get here. The hills are rolling and the mountains fill the backdrop with a grandiose flair that might have been beautiful.

Working his jaw, Michael controls his breathing. “I think you’re angry as hell because you don’t want anyone to know how much it hurts.”

Casey stiffens, eyes flashing darkly. “Of course it hurts,” he seethes. “Billy’s dead. I’m a weapon, not a machine.”

Michael nods. “I know. That’s why I think we should talk about it--”

“Talk about it?” Casey asks tersely, his voice rising. “Talk about what? The operational failures that led to the entire militia outing us? Or how about the brilliant plan of running really fast? Or how Billy ended up being the low man on the rope and giving himself up for all of us? Or maybe the part where you made us keep running without even a visual confirmation of Billy’s status.”

Casey’s face is red, his chest heaving. Across the room, Rick is curled in on himself, eyes shut mercifully in sleep. Gillet busies himself at the computer, purposefully ignoring them while Clack makes no secret of eyeing them warily from her post by the door.

Michael’s too aware of these things. But mostly he’s aware of the fact that Casey’s right. About everything.

Casey’s _right._

He sighs, dropping his head. “I know,” he agrees. “If I could go back--”

Casey huffs, shaking his head. “I don’t blame you, Michael,” he hisses. “You want to play martyr; you want to try to fix this, but that’s not what this is about.”

Michael swallows hard. “Then what is it about?”

This time, when Casey meets his gaze the look is agonizing. Casey’s entire posture slouches. “It’s about closure,” he says. His voice drops. “We didn’t even get the body.”

It’s strangely vulnerable, and anyone who didn’t know Casey as well as Michael did might be taken aback. As it is, seeing Casey like this is never easy for Michael, even if it’s not unexpected. Casey is callous and terse by years of practice, not nature. And the people who see behind that guise -- Michael and Rick and Billy -- are the ones who can rip it apart the easiest.

Michael has no choice, though. He can’t run from this like he’s run from everything else on this mission. “I know.”

“It’s like Simms all over again,” Casey continues. His gaze sharpens. “We can’t keep doing this, Michael.”

There’s more than a trace of accusation, and a hell of a lot of resentment. Casey strives for perfection, and even if he’s realistic enough to know it’s not always possible, that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t grate like hell when things fall short.

Michael’s stomach twists painfully. This mission has done more than fall short. It’s fallen long and hard and Michael’s wondering if they’ll ever hit bottom.

“I know,” Michael says again, because it’s all he has to offer. “If I could change it, I would. You know that.”

“We can,” Casey says, harsher now as his voice rises again.

“You saw that drop--”

“And bodies just don’t disappear,” Casey snaps. Across the room, Gillet cracks his knuckles and Clack is still staring. Casey leans closer. “We can’t _leave him_ there.”

Michael’s face flushes, and the emotions pound in his head. “What do you want me to do, Malick?” he asks, sharply now. He nods toward the window. “The mountains will be teeming by now with a lot more than the militia that tracked us down. If we go out there we compromise everything we fought for.”

Everything Billy died for, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He can’t say it. He doesn’t have to, anyway.

Casey looks annoyed. “Clack’s a pain in the ass, but she’d keep the intel secure,” he gripes.

Michael scoffs. “So, what?” he presses. “You want to go out and drag the ravine yourself? We’re not equipped, and you know it.” He drops his voice and leans closer. “We’re not even emotionally capable of it right now.”

Casey doesn’t shrink away. “It’s Billy.”

The way he says it is so simple. It’s so plain. Michael can angst and posture, but that’s what it comes down to. It’s Billy. It’s _Billy._

Michael let him fall, and now he’s making the choice to leave him out there.

Probably to rot.

It’s not easy. It’s not what Michael wants. But this mission is so far from what Michael wants that he doesn’t see the point in even pretending anymore. Slowly, Michael takes a breath and lets it out, trying to unfurl the knot in his stomach. It doesn’t do much good, but he swallows. “I know,” he says again, and it sounds pitiful now, more so with each admission. “I lost one man out there, though. I won’t lose two more.”

Casey makes a face of disgust. “We can survive--”

“Yeah,” Michael cuts him off abruptly. “That’s what we thought before.”

Casey’s expression turns, from disgust to incredulity. “So, what, then?” he asks. “You want to leave him there?”

Michael doesn’t want to leave him there, but he doesn’t want Billy to be dead. He shakes his head. “You really want to go out there?” he asks. 

Casey regards him, standing stiffly.

“What about Rick?” Michael asks, nodding toward their youngest teammate. “You want to risk his life, too?”

Casey doesn’t budge. “Billy was his teammate as much as mine.”

“Exactly,” Michael says. “And what do you think it’ll do to him when we find Billy, huh? You saw that drop; you know what that will do to a body. Broken bones are a given. Internal damage is guaranteed. And we’re not talking about bruising and gashes -- he could broken wide open. He might not even look like Billy at all. Is that how you want Martinez to remember Billy? Is that how you want to remember him?”

Casey’s a tough son of a bitch, but the diatribe almost makes him flinch. His face is taut with emotion, even as he keeps himself almost painfully still. “We owe him this,” he says, not in denial but as the only counterpoint that matters.

And it does matter. It matters a lot.

Michael’s shoulders fall. Normally he likes being right, but this isn’t an argument he wants to win. Not that either of them could. “We owed it to Billy to bring him home alive,” he replies simply. “Going back out there -- risking what little we have left -- won’t change the fact that we already failed.”

For a moment, Casey watches him. His eyes gleam for a second and then he looks away, saying nothing. There’s no further defense. There’s no further argument.

There’s just nothing.

And not for the first time on this mission, Michael finds he has no choice but to finally just walk away.

-o-

It’s not so bad.

Sure, the ground is uneven, the slow but steady incline taxing him with every step. And yes, the sun is far too bright, damn near blinding him as he trips over the rocks and ruts in the foothills. It’s also true that Billy’s not entirely sure where he’s going, but he’s always had a pretty good sense of direction even if right now he hasn’t got much sense of anything.

Because fine, Billy’s in pain. Billy’s in a lot of pain. In fact, Billy’s in so much pain that he almost doesn’t know how to keep track of it anymore. It seems to vie for his attention. One second, his throbbing head threatens to blacken his vision; the next, his ribs are burning with such intensity that he almost gags. Then there’s the stomach and the shoulders and the legs and the -- bloody hell, the everything.

Still, Billy tells himself. It could be worse.

For starters, he thinks as he stumbles onward, it could be night already. The sun is sinking but it’s still light out, and if Billy doesn’t like blood or heights or small spaces, then he also not particularly keen of the dark. Plus, more practically, navigation would be damn near impossible in the dark, so the fact that he still has daylight is a real boon.

Then, Billy also considers that he could actually be in a far more dangerous country. Yes, the ODS made some enemies here, but at least he can feasibly move through the territory without every person he encounters trying to blow his head off. In all, that is quite helpful.

Also, it could be much colder. Or much hotter.

Actually, Billy’s not even sure what temperature it is. He’s sweating and shivering, so maybe that one is a wash.

But still. He could be hurt worse. He doesn’t think much about the fall (the distance, the weightlessness, the look on Michael’s face as he closed his eyes and Billy just let go) but he does know that he probably should be dead. Hell, he never suspected he’d wake up at all, so a little pain and exhaustion and total disorientation is really just a reminder of how damn lucky he is.

And if all that isn’t enough, Billy tells himself, huffing as he crests a hill and looks over the vast decline in front of him, the rope could have broke.

That’s the crux of this, Billy reminds himself. The rope could have broke and it might not just be Billy. It might have been Michael and Rick and Casey. If Billy’s here, stumbling through the foothills, then they’re off and safe at the outpost. Somehow, Billy got lucky enough to survive. If all of them had fallen...

This would be a very different story, then.

Billy takes a hitching breath and tries to steady himself. He blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision. In all, he’s only marginally successful. Things are hazy and his peripheral vision seems to be gone. He’s trembling, his knees threatening to give out at any second, and when he takes a breath it’s like a thousand knives stabbing his lungs so hard that he wants to curl up in a ball and cry.

Not that Billy’s opposed to crying at this point. He’s fallen off a cliff, so he’s earned it.

But if he cries, then he’s not running.

If he’s not running, then he can’t find his mates.

If he can’t find his mates, then he very well might die out here.

And that, Billy tells himself, would really be the worst thing of all. To survive everything only to succumb to his own weakness. It’s unacceptable.

So he ignores the pain. He fights through the nausea. 

And he keeps on running.

-o-

Rick sleeps; Casey paces.

Michael stands.

He’s secured the intel, after all. Clack has arranged for extraction. Gillet has quietly agreed to organize a search party. Everything is done. It’s over.

But Michael knows better. There is a fraying loose end, swaying in the mountain breeze like the empty end of a rope.

Michael’s planned and he’s worked and he’s run. 

And now he has to stand.

He watches as Rick shifts, whimpering slightly as his brow furrows and he settles back into exhaustion. He watches as Casey stalks the corners of the room, glaring at Clack and Gillet and the coffee pot, for reasons that no one can discern. It might be funny...

Except nothing is funny. There’s no one there to crack jokes. There’s just nothing.

Seconds tick by. Somehow the minutes build and the daytime starts to fade. And Michael stands and watches Rick, watches Casey, watches the expanse out the window. They’ve defied the odds before; Billy’s got more lives than a cat. He’s been shot and stabbed, dejected and deported and he’s still survived. He’s been kidnapped and knocked out, embarrassed and damn near erased from the record, and he’s always been there, riding with Michael to work and slouching at his desk with a crossword puzzle. Michael’s rolled his eyes at the Scot, cursed his bad timing, and learned to count on him for _everything._

And now he’s gone.

He’s just _gone._

One moment, he was there. The next, there was nothing.

Michael plans and he acts and he runs and he moves, and when it counted he clung to the rope and did nothing while Billy fell.

While Billy died.

The pain is building in his chest and the tears burn behind his eyes. At the window, he thinks of Billy -- the resignation and the fear on his face -- and tries not to think of the things he should have done, he could have done. If he’d gone last across the bridge, if he’d climbed faster. If he’d never gotten busted in the first place. If he’d seen Billy’s file all those years ago and just kept on looking for a replacement.

If.

The possibilities are lost, though. They’re slipping away from Michael, because maybe they’ve never been his to grasp anyway. He’s tried so hard, and it’s gotten him pretty far. He’s got Rick and Casey, after all. He has the intel. He has most of what he needs.

But not everything.

He can be there for Rick, he can talk sense to Casey. He can stand eye to eye with Clack and grunt at Gillet. He can do all these things, but...

Not everything.

In this, Michael is impotent, still hanging on for dear life even as everything threatens to fall apart. It’s teetering precariously while Rick sleeps and Casey paces and life just inches on, painfully and meticulously, second by second by second.

And Michael closes his eyes.

-o-

Billy’s been tired from the outset, but when the sun starts to dip behind the shallowing declines he feels a weariness he’s never known before. Billy has many sins -- lust and gluttony are just the start -- and his mum often warned him that his slothfulness could be his demise. He’d never paid her much heed and let his clothing pile up and the dirty dishes collect mold, because he’s always thought he could pull off great feats when it mattered.

Billy’s good under pressure, after all. He’s fallen off a cliff and managed to run this far. That counts for something.

He’s not there yet, though. And he’s just so tired.

His feet are dragging, toes numb and shins aching. His thighs are on fire and the pain cuts deeply throughout his torso. He has to keep running, though. For all the nights he was too lazy to walk to his bedroom, for all the mornings Michael had to drag him out of bed, he should be able to do this. He can do this.

He has to do this.

But his eyes are closing and his breathing staggers. He’s still on his feet as his consciousness ebbs and he trips, falling to his knees. The impact jars him and he cries out, catching himself on his battered arms that give way until he’s face first on the ground.

He’s not sure he _can_ do this. He’s hurt and he’s winded and he’s just so tired...

His chest clenches and he tries to push himself up. He crawls a few paces before getting to his wobbly feet. If he sleeps, he’ll never wake up. If he sleeps, he’ll die.

If he sleeps...

His eyes are closing again and this time he doesn’t feel the impact as he collapses to the ground. It’s rough and he can taste the dirt and his arm is pinned beneath him and Michael and Casey and Rick and...

If he sleeps...

His eyes flutter, his heart pounding.

If he sleeps...

Billy can’t remember the reasons, though. He can’t remember the fears. He can’t even remember how to make his legs move or how to do anything but sleep.  
 _  
Sleep.  
_  
And Billy does.

-o-

When the darkness takes hold, Michael stays awake. Gillet shows them a sleeping space -- it’s small and the cots are uncomfortable, but Martinez hardly seems to notice when he curls up and just keeps sleeping. It’s shock, Michael knows and suspects that morning will not be kind to any of them.

Casey will not be so easily coddled. But angry and grieving as he is, the man is still innately practical. There’s nothing he can do by staying awake so he rolls on his side, back to Michael, and settles into stillness. Even Gillet retires eventually, leaving Clack on first watch, and Michael doesn’t bother to offer to help her out. She doesn’t seem the type to take outside help, and Michael’s not sure what good his leadership is anyway.

Besides, he’s been going all day long. He’s past his prime.

He settles into his own cot and wonders if that’s true in more ways than one.

Still, exhaustion isn’t enough and he stares into the dark. He isn’t sure when he closes his eyes, but he knows when the nightmare starts.

Billy’s on the end of the rope and this time, Michael doesn’t look away. He watches as Billy falls and careens, tumbling head over heels until the floor of the valley comes up to meet him with devastating force--

Michael gasps, eyes opening. The dark is still the same; Rick is sleeping; Casey is still. Michael’s flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Billy’s not here.

And in the dark, Michael starts to cry.

-o-

Billy wakes with sunlight pressing against his eyelids. Even before he flinches, everything hurts, and the fresh wave of pain threatens to pull him back under before he even gets up. 

But.

Billy _wakes._

It comes like a revelation, and he’s so shocked that he opens his eyes--

And promptly almost chokes on his own spit. He coughs, shuddering as he flails on his side and hacks uselessly for a few minutes. The effort leaves him spent and crying, his entire body trembling in the early dawn.

Billy wakes.

Billy’s alive.

Yesterday is vague to him, but he remembers the sensation of falling. Of weightlessness and fumbling, of going down and down and down and--

He sucks in a ragged breath. He’d survived impact. He’s survived the night.

He’s survived.

He’s not sure how -- everything feels so broken -- but it seems silly to question it. Billy doesn’t even have the energy to question it. He really just wants to lay here, to close his eyes and tumble back into darkness...

He startles, eyes jerking open again. He can’t sleep. If he sleeps, he dies. And he hasn’t fallen off a cliff, nearly drowned in a river, and stumbled with a broken body to die here, like this.

Maybe he’s lucky. Maybe he’s really unlucky. Maybe he’s just too stupid to die. Maybe it’s just not his time.

Billy doesn’t care. He just pushes himself up, arms trembling as he stumbles to his feet. The world dips wildly and his stomach churns with nausea but he doesn’t care. He can’t care.

Because Billy wakes. Billy’s alive. And Billy has to find his friends.

Mostly, though, Billy just has to run.

One foot after another, knees shaking and body groaning. Billy runs.

-o-

Michael’s a bit of a morning person. He likes to be productive early, and he finds that getting up before the rest of the world puts him at a distinct advantage. Most days, even his days off, he’s up with the sun, going for a run or going over mission notes. He finds it refreshing; invigorating. And he always chides Billy for barely rolling out of bed while Michael pounds on the door with the engine running.

Correction: always _chided._ When they get back to the States, Michael will be making his trek into Langley alone. He’ll be so much more efficient.

In the wan sunlight coming through the windows, Michael closes his eyes, swallowing hard. As much as he glares at Billy for being slothful and messy, he knows the Scot helps keep him in check. Michael’s probably more prone to OCD behavior than he wants to admit -- paranoid bastard, after all -- and Billy helps keep him just a little bit grounded.

Billy fell down a cliff, though. And right now, lying on the uncomfortable cot, Michael feels like he’s slipping, too.

Across the room, Casey stirs. Rick’s still dead to the world, and Michael has no intention of disturbing him. The more the kid can sleep through this part, the better it will be.

Not that anything is really better.

Billy’s dead, after all. 

Casey gets up and he doesn’t linger. Michael watches him as he goes out, but the older operative doesn’t even try to make eye contact. So he’s still not happy.

Not that Michael can blame him. Michael’s not happy either, but he’s less mad than he is just exhausted. Despite lying down for the night, Michael hardly slept, the nightmares shaking him awake until his nerves were too frayed to even try coping. He can still see Billy’s face -- how scared he is, how resigned he is -- and the damn rope is haunting him. Sometimes, he can almost hear Billy’s voice, the lilting accent trying to make it sound like everything is okay, like everything has always been okay.

Michael shudders. He wishes suddenly he could sleep like Martinez. Or even that he could suppress all the hurt into rage like Malick. Right now he just feels so empty.

Distantly, he hears voices. He knows he has to get up -- as much as he dislikes Clack, he has to work with her discretely at some point to confirm transport and to have her organize retrieval. Water runs -- a shower, Michael thinks -- and Rick snuffles in his sleep, rolling over and settling back to bed.

Sighing, Michael gets up. He’s lightheaded when he goes out, and he doesn’t bother trying to change his rumpled and smelly clothes. When he half staggers into the living area Gillet gives him a look, which Michael promptly ignores. Instead, he goes to Clack, who is sipping coffee while reading over a file.

She looks up at him, lifting her eyebrows. “You look horrible.”

Michael doesn’t even try to smile. “Malick in the shower?” he asks.

She nods, looking back down. “I can assume,” she says. “He only grunted and glared before locking himself in there.”

Michael sits down across from her. “He’s not exactly a people person.”

“We’re spies,” Clack replies evenly, glancing at Michael again. “I don’t have high expectations.”

“Yeah, well, cut us some slack,” he says. “We lost a man out there.”

To that, Clack is mercifully quiet for a moment. Finally, she holds out the paper and puts it in front of him. “For what it’s worth, he didn’t die in vain,” she says. “This just came in from local news outlets. The entire network is in disarray. Whatever you guys did, you did a damn good job.”

Michael scans the words, but none of them make sense. He tries to remember this mission. He tries to remember why they were here. He’s been so intent on finishing the job that he barely even knows what it is anymore. He tells Casey and Rick it’s worth it, but now when he’s presented with the evidence it feels empty.

Like a frayed rope dangling in the breeze.  
 _  
We do what’s best for the team,_ Billy’s voice is clear in his head, but Michael has no response. He doesn’t even know what it means anymore.

Stomach turning, Michael hands the paper back to her. “That’s good,” he says. “But that’s not the only thing that matters.”

Finally, she sighs, the edge fading from her face as her shoulders slouch. “You want us to organize a team,” she says.

“They know we were CIA,” he says. “Even a body...”

“Could be a potential risk, I know,” she agrees. “I’m already ahead of you. There will be two military intelligence officers with special training on board the transport that comes for you. They’ll stay here and commence recovery operations.”

That makes sense. Michael hadn’t even thought that far ahead. It’s his job to plan, and Clack’s done it all for him. Maybe if Clack had been in charge, Billy would still be here.

“Hey,” Clack says, softer now.

Michael startles and realizes he’d been spacing off.

“You did the best job you could,” she says, strangely sympathetic. “Losing a man is never easy--”

Michael grits his teeth and tears sting his eyes.

“--but you’re doing the right thing. Getting the intel taken care of; getting the rest of your team home,” she says. “That’s all you can do.”

That’s all Michael can do.

He knows it’s true. He’s been running from that cliffside since Billy fell because he _knows_ it’s true. He’s done a thousand things right and a few things wrong and usually that all evens out but today...

Today Billy’s dead and Michael has to accept platitudes from strangers.

He closes his eyes for a moment and tries to remember how to breathe. When he opens them, Clack is still watching him, and this time Michael manages a smile as he answers, “I know.”

-o-

There’s a shooting pain that flares up through Billy’s leg with every step. When he hunches over to ease that pain something jars in his chest and his breathing falters. He straightens his back and his stomach feels like it’s being turned inside out even as he forces air out through his protesting lungs. This would all bother him more if his head didn’t hurt quite so bad.

As it is, he can’t afford to think about how it hurts, not when he’s so busy telling his body to lift his feet and move. To Billy, it’s a million single steps, each one more taxing and more costly than the last.

He’s dehydrated, even though he stumbles through a stream and pauses long enough to drink. He would have stayed longer but the ground had been so comfortable...

Another step.

Another step.

Closer to his friends. Closer to home. Closer...

Closer to failing. His body is starting to shut down, he knows, at least on some level. His breathing is harsh and strained, and his stomach is rigid. His peripheral vision is all but gone now and even the uneven ground in front of him is blurred and doubled.

It can’t be much longer, he tells himself. It can’t be much longer.

The pain escalates, moving through his hips and groin now and he almost cries out as he staggers and something seems to give in his chest. He coughs, almost falling, catching himself on a tree even as his wrist throbs unexpectedly, a thousand pins and needles.

He pauses to catch his breath, but it doesn’t help.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s almost there, he tells himself again, like a mantra now, and he forces his feet to move in a staggered rhythm to it. It can’t be much longer.

If it is, he’ll never make it.

He keeps moving, even as he slows because he knows failure is an option this time. With every step, with every breath, with every pain, failure is a very real option.

But as he stumbles again, Billy tries not to think about how he’s made a career of failure, starting with his first fall from grace to the last. That’s almost too much, though, and quitting seems suddenly very attractive. He’s let go before. It wouldn’t be so hard...

He shakes himself, clearing his head as best he can. This isn’t the time to reflect. This isn’t the time to think, even.

It’s just time to run.


	3. Chapter 3

Michael has a painfully good sense of time. The day crawls by, the minutes excruciating as he feels each second that separates him from the cliffside. He does what he can to keep going, but the hard truth is there’s not much he can do.

Casey showers and dresses, looking as trim and proper as ever as he sits down and glowers his way through breakfast. He continues stalking the edges of the room, and Gillet seems to be increasingly uncertain of Casey’s agitated presence. In any other circumstance, Michael might tell Casey to back off, but Michael knows better.

Hell, he knows Casey can’t. Casey’s grieving, in his own way. Without something to destroy, predatory glances are all that’s keeping Casey from going batshit crazy on Gillet and Clack -- and Michael.

Rick wakes in the mid morning. He seems dazed and confused, and when he sits up he asks where Billy is.

When Michael hesitates Rick remembers, and Michael has spent the rest of the day trying to make Martinez go through the motions. It’s a bit awkward when he shuffles Rick to the shower, but the kid manages to dress himself in sweatpants and a t-shirt, so Michael counts that as a win.

Not that it’s much of a win. It’s telling that Michael’s willing to count it anyway.

Clack disappears for part of the day -- presumably to rest -- and Gillet watches them warily. When the afternoon finally starts to wane, Michael’s about ready to coax Rick into eating when Clack comes back out.

“Just got off the phone,” she says. “Transport’s about five minutes out. So load on up.”

Michael doesn’t generally like taking orders, but he’s so relieved for something to do that he gets up immediately. His first instinct is to gather the intel -- it’s all still secure in his satchel -- before turning to Casey, who is pressed against the wall, eyes narrowed at Michael.

“You need to pack anything?” he asks. “If you want I can do a sweep of the bathroom for your stuff.”

Casey purses his lips. “I’m sure that’ll be quite helpful,” he intones sarcastically.

“I just don’t want to leave anything--”

Casey snorts loudly. “We’re leaving behind a teammate, Michael,” he says. “Do you think I care if I have my toothbrush?”

The jibe is pointed and well placed. Still, Michael hardly feels it. Casey is probably looking for a fight, but Michael has no intention of giving him one. Hell, he doesn’t have the energy to give him one. “Okay,” he says instead. “When the car comes, we’ll be in it. No arguments.”

“Except Billy, you mean,” Casey remarks coldly. “Or are we already pretending that he doesn’t exist? Since that’s worked so well for us before.”

Michael collects a breath and lets it out. “Just be ready,” he says shortly. “I’ve got to go get Rick.”

Casey says nothing, probably because Casey is pissed off and hurting but he’s not stupid. He wants a rise out of Michael, but they both know the kid has more problems to contend with. Rick’s a good operative, but he’s young. He’s too young, and sometimes Michael takes that for granted. Other times, he painfully aware of it. Like in Bolivia.

Like now.

He finds Rick sitting on the cot in the bedroom. He’s still barefoot, holding a toothbrush in his hands, as if he had been trying to get up to brush. He’s staring vacantly at the wall, and he looks like he’s 12.

Michael winces, but doesn’t hold back. “Hey,” he says, puttering over to the beds and throwing the sheets back, checking for any lost items. “Just heard from Clack that our ride’s about here.”

Rick doesn’t reply.

Michael remakes the beds hastily, picking up Rick’s back and zipping it shut. “You ready to go home?”

Rick finally looks at Michael. “This is really it, then?” he asks. “We’re just going to go home.”

Michael sighs. “We’ve talked about this--”

“I know,” Rick says quickly. “I just...” He looks at the wall again, shaking his head. “He should be with us.”

The longing is hard to hear, harder still because Michael knows. Michael knows better than all of them. This was Michael’s mission and Michael’s plan. And he let BIlly go last. He let Billy let go.

This is Michael’s fault. It’s Michael’s fault that Casey’s so angry that he can barely stop from hurting people. It’s Michael’s fault that Rick is pale and shaky. It’s Michael’s fault that they’ll go home a man short.

It’s Michael’s fault that Billy’s dead.

And there’s nothing Michael can say to change that. There’s nothing he can even say to make it more palatable.

Yet, he has no choice. He closes his eyes, sees the long drop and the empty rope.

He opens his eyes, and Rick is looking at him. Finally, Michael manages a grim smile. “Yeah, he should,” he agrees. “But he’s not. And if anyone would want us to get home, it’s Billy. He’d want us to buy a round when we get back, just to celebrate.”

“Scotch,” Rick says weakly.

“Nothing fancy, though,” Michael jokes. “Bastard never cared about nuance.”

Rick smiles feebly. “Quantity over quality.”

Michael’s lips twist bittersweetly. “Sounds about right.”

The smile falters and Rick swallows. “I miss him, Michael.”

“Yeah,” is all Michael can say around the tightness in his throat. “Me, too.”

-o-

Billy’s falling.

This mission, that seems to be a recurring theme, but when he goes down he finds himself forgetting if this is a short fall or a much longer way. Either way, impact is unpleasant.

He hits the ground on his hands and knees, the jarring pain making him cry out. He chokes on a sob, his chest feeling like it’s being squeezed, and he’d curse but he doesn’t have the energy.

He doesn’t have the energy for anything. He just wants to lay down, to let this fall be his last. He knows what they say about the horse, about getting back on, bruises and damaged ego be damned but--

This isn’t a horse. This is Billy, broken and bruised and bleeding and so, so tired...

He can’t, though. He let go once, and now it’s time to hold on. It’s time to get up. It’s time to get up.

He’s on his feet, though he can’t precisely remember how. It doesn’t matter how. What matters is moving, finding his friends, hanging on.

This isn’t the last fall.

Not yet, Billy thinks as he staggers on. The pain is almost too intense to understand now, and he can’t make sense of the myriad of sensations. He might be hungry; he might be thirsty. Or he could just be bleeding to death from a thousand internal tears. Still, he’s nothing if not tenacious, even stupidly so.

If he remembers nothing, if he has nothing, he still has this: the look on Michael’s face before he let go. He has to see Michael. He has to keep going. Fate’s given him a million chances, and apparently Billy needs each one.

His foot catches something and he goes down, this time his arms can’t catch him. He’s face first on the earth, spitting out dirt and his vision is blurred with green. He has to roll awkwardly and he almost retches when he sits up, and his vision blackens precariously by the time he finds his knees. But he still makes it to his feet and lurches on.  
 _  
Not yet.  
_  
-o-

It’s time to go.

In truth, it’s been time for a while now. If Michael had played things safe, they would have been packed and out of the country three days ago and none of this would have happened. But it’s not Michael’s job to play it safe, and he has the broken team to show for it.

But it’s too late to change that now. Now, it’s just time to go. To take what’s left of his team, and leave.

Rick’s sitting by the door with his bags, staring at the window. Casey refuses to shoulder his pack, so Michael has it ready by Rick’s and he plans to carry it out himself. His own things and the mission intel are secured by the door, and Clack and Gillet have cleared the transport and have greeted the extraction team.

It’s a four man team, but two of them have already brought their bags in. They don’t say anything to Michael, and they won’t look him in the eyes so he knows what they’re there for. They’ll be the ones to find Billy.

Michael’s not particularly sentimental; he’s also not superstitious. Death is death, and it’s all pretty simple to him. The body lives and then the body dies, and that’s pretty much that. He hasn’t positively ruled out the possibility of an afterlife but since he has no control over that, he doesn’t see much reason to worry about it.

The point is, of course, that Billy’s gone. Finding his body is the right thing to do, but the closure is for his team, not for Billy. He supposes Billy might like a proper burial -- though, CIA honors won’t mean as much to him as going home. Michael’s not sure if he can finagle a plot in Scotland, and if not then scattered ashes will have to do.   
_  
Born and bruised in North Edinburgh.  
_  
Buried, too.

Michael shudders at the thought. He can still hear Billy, the musical lilt of his voice. He’s come to count on that, and now it’s gone.

Now two strangers are going to comb the gorge and put whatever’s left of Billy in a body bag back to the States.

It’s a little hard to take.

Clenching his teeth, Michael busies himself. He picks up the bags and smiles at Rick as best he can. “You ready?”

It’s a stupid question. Martinez is no more ready than Michael is, but that’s not the point.

Rick looks up at him lamely, but he doesn’t resist when Michael helps him to his feet. Then, he glances back at Casey. “We’re loading up,” he announces.

Casey’s gaze is icy. For a minute, Michael worries the older operative is going to defy him, but instead Casey stiffens and stalks past Michael. “I call shotgun,” he mutters on his way, not pausing to look back.

Michael sighs, lifting Casey’s bag as well before handing Rick’s to him. “Come on,” he says.

Clack comes up behind them. “Everything’s clear,” she says. “The extraction team will take it from here, and they’ve got a military transport waiting for you. You’ll be Stateside before you know.”

It’s as much kindness as Michael can expect from Clack, and he tries to be grateful. As he shuttles Rick out into the sunlight toward the car, Michael tries very hard to be relieved it’s over, that he hasn’t lost anything more. They’re going home. That counts for something.

Up ahead, Casey is ducking into the front seat, face taut with concentration.

Next to him, Rick looks young and terrified. 

Instinctively, Michael looks behind him for Billy but no one’s there.

He closes his eyes (and sees the empty rope dangling in the wind).

A shiver races up his spine and he swallows desperately, opening his eyes, picking up his pace to move around to the trunk. One of the agents has opened it and Michael numbly lifts the bags and starts loading them in. He has everything. He’s not going to leave anything behind.

Except Billy.

He feels lightheaded at the realization. He’s been here before. He’d thought leaving North Africa would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. There’d been no body then either. He’d told himself that with the fire and the flames, there’d be nothing but ash. Casey and Billy had wanted to stay, but he’d made them come home.

Three years later, Carson Simms was still alive.

This is different, though. This is a long drop and an empty rope and _Billy._

Leaving is the right thing. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Casey’s already in the front and Rick’s settled in the back. The engine is idling and Clack is thanking the other agent. Michael has to get the intel back; he has to protect his team.

But he can’t. He’s already failed his team in every way possible, and he has a bad habit of coming home without his teammates. He always does what needs to be done, and most of the time it’s enough.

This time, it’s not.

This time, Michael’s not sure he can walk away. He can give Casey space and he can be Rick’s strength, but he can’t walk away. Because he can still see the fear in Billy’s eyes, he can still feel the wind.

Billy’s still talking, and his voice is clear across the valley  
 _  
Sometimes when we’re holding on, it’s for ourselves.  
_  
And Michael can’t let go. Michael’s still holding on. 

Michael can’t leave.

He backs away from the car, shaking his head. 

Clack looks at him strangely. “Dorset?”

He swallows, feeling shaky. “I can’t,” he says, but his voice sounds funny, the words twisted and strangled.

Clack inclines her head. “We already talked about this--”

He almost laughs, a hoarse, choked sound. “I can’t leave,” he says, the certainty growing cold and hard in his gut. “Billy’s still out there.”

For a moment, Clack looks annoyed, but to her credit, she covers it quickly with a facsimile of concern. “You told me yourself, that drop would kill him instantly.”

“I know,” he says, chest hitching now as his breathing quickens. “I just. I can’t. I won’t--”

Clack steps forward and Michael finds himself flinching, pulling away. “I can’t let go,” he tells her, vehemently now. It’s irrational and he knows it, and he doesn’t even know what he thinks he can do, but he has to stay, he has to find out. He shakes his head, tears burning even as he refuses to look away. “I _won’t._ ”

And not for the first time on this mission, he turns and runs.

-o-

Billy has to hang on.

He can still feel the rope in his hands, split and fraying as it sways against the cliffside. Michael tells him to hang on.

Billy trips, and he almost falls again. He stumbles drunkenly, arms flailing a bit as he tries to stay upright.

Because he can’t let go. Not this time. Not when he’s so close.

But is he close? Billy’s doesn’t even know. He can’t even remember. Right is left and up is down and he runs and runs and...

Don’t let go. Keep going. Hang on.

But Billy can’t. He can give everything he has, but eventually he just runs out. Sometimes, there’s nothing left. It’s not quitting then, he tells himself. It can’t be quitting.

It feels like it.

Tears blur in his eyes and he chokes on a sob deep in his chest. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to give up. He wants to hold on, he wants to find his friends. He wants to see Casey and Rick and Michael...

He trips again, his knees weakening. His legs move desperately now, an uncoordinated gait that he has no control over. It hurts. It’s exhausting. It’s too much.

And it’s over.

This is why he let go on the cliffside. Because he was already dead.

It’s not fair. And it’s not okay. His feet fall numbly and his vision is almost gone. The pain rises and he cries out in frustration. It’s a last, dying yawp, the last of what he has. The sound is guttural, born so deep in his stomach that he can almost feel it grating against his damaged insides. It escapes his throat, broken and keening, and it leaves his body with a painful rush of air.

Billy lets go.

It’s one last fall, and as his body goes weightless, he closes his eyes because this is the longest one yet.

-o-

When Michael runs, he’s usually pretty sure of the destination. He has his jogging routes mapped out, and he knows every twist and bend in the road. On missions, he has clear objectives and when he runs, it’s with obvious and simple intent. Sometimes he’s running from something; sometimes he’s running to something. 

This time, however, he’s just running. He’s too aware as he passes over the terrain that he doesn’t know where he’s going. At all. His run is frantic and uneven, his breathing tight as his feet tumble across the ground with horrendous form.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. There’s no reason to run now. But he can’t stop himself.

The CIA annex is relatively small, but with the transport the gate’s still open. Michael’s sure that violates some sort of protocol, but the lock isn’t simple and it was supposed to be an in and out job. The ODS was supposed to load up and leave.

As if anything is that simple.

Because Casey’s pissed off and Rick’s in shock and Billy’s dead and Michael just runs.

When he slips through the gate, he can hear the yelling. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down. If anything, he just picks up his pace.

He was fast enough back in Bolivia, when he got to the clinic and found the doctor. That had been close -- too close -- but it had ended up okay. They’d survived.

But no matter how fast he runs now, Billy’s still gone.

He’ll never catch up to Billy; he can’t stop long enough for Billy to catch up.

Billy’s dead.

An empty rope.

A sheer drop.

And Michael closes his eyes.

Just like that, his feet trip and Michael’s careening. He almost falls, but fumbles forward. His eyes are blurred with tears now and his chest clenches so tight that he actually feels like he’s suffocating. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can’t run.

He _can’t._

It’s all a blur now, the emotions rising and swelling as his stomach twists. Uncontrollably, he goes to his knees and the first sob that comes out is taut and painful. He waits for the second, but it doesn’t come.

Nothing comes.

He can’t do this, but what else is there? What else can he do? Go back and be Casey’s whipping boy? Be Rick’s strong shoulder to cry on? Does he go back to Langley, turn in his report and write Billy’s obituary for the Agency newsletter?

Is that it?

Does he arrange the funeral? Does he clean out Billy’s apartment? Does he take Billy back to Scotland in a nondescript urn?

Is this really it?

Michael drops his head and squeezes his eyes shut. Billy’s still there, in his mind. Smiling sadly, because he knows.  
 _  
You know what has to be done.  
_  
And Michael’s tried. He’s tried hard. But he can’t.

Behind him, there are footsteps. Voices.

He still hears Billy. It’s like he’s crying out for help--

A lone, anguished cry. The sound of a dying animal, resounding through the hills.

The intensity of it makes Michael flinch.

The voices behind him are closer.

“Dorset, what the hell--”

“He’s _fine--_ ”

“Michael--”

But Michael looks up, Billy’s voice echoing in his head. He blinks, his head clearing and his eyes focusing. He can hear Billy...

Not in his head.

He can _hear_ Billy.

Dimly, he gets to his feet. Part of him is aware that this is probably some sort of psychotic break. Hell, he’s sort of hoping it is at this point, but _Billy._ Hurt and dying and Michael has to try.

Then he’s running again, shoving away the hands that try to stop him. He picks up his pace, his legs burning as he crests the hill and looks down over the downward slope. At first, it’s just empty vastness, but then he sees the figure.

It’s crumpled, nothing more than a dark heap at the bottom of the incline. It sort of looks like a rock -- that is the logical explanation -- but...

Michael lurches forward, half falling down the hill. He slips and hits his backside, skidding his way down even as the voices behind him call for him to stop. He’s too far now; he’s going to see this through.

At the bottom, he goes to his knees, the grass burning through the fabric. He reaches out to touch the crumpled form, almost afraid to look. It is a body, though, and it’s still warm beneath his touch. When he rolls the body toward him, it sags, and a bloody visage is splayed up to the sky.

For a second, Michael can only see the blood and stained clothing. Everything is ripped and mangled, blood smeared and dirt crusted. But the chest rises and falls in ragged breathing and Michael’s eyes lock on Billy’s face.  
 _  
Billy.  
_  
Real beneath his touch, fresh blood still leaking. There’s no way, of course, but Michael’s sort of given up on reality by this point. It doesn’t make sense, but then, nothing has made sense since the bridge gave out and Billy fell. Billy’s dead at the bottom of the valley, but Billy’s here, lying broken before him, and if Michael can’t make those two things parse, he just doesn’t try anymore.

Instead, he cries out inarticulately, fingers reaching to Billy’s face. Billy doesn’t flicker, but he’s still breathing wetly and Michael’s desperate enough to hope.

Hell, he’ll _cling_ to hope, clutch it so tightly that he may never let go.

His hand grasps Billy’s shoulder, squeezing firmly.

This time, no one is letting go.

-o-

 

It’s freefall. 

For a moment, he’s suspended, wind rushing past his ears as he falls with his face to the glaringly blue sky. He’s falling hard and fast, and he feels like there should be something to do, but this time, there’s just not.

His strength has left him, and as he descends the darkness rises to greet him. The pain fades, the agony settles and there’s nothing but inevitable cold as his consciousness spirals to a fine point and then--

He doesn’t feel impact.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, someone calling his name. When he opens his eyes, he sees Michael.  
 _  
Michael.  
_  
He wants to smile. He wants to cry. 

As it is, he doesn’t have strength for either.

Michael hoists him up, and Casey pulls alongside, strong hands on his damaged body. And Rick is there, holding his hand, telling him it’s going to be okay.

That’s almost funny. After all this, Billy’s not sure how it can be okay. Given how far he’s fallen, how many times he’s let go--

Then again, it’s not the fall that kills you. This time, there’s not even a sudden stop at the end.

There’s just his team.

Maybe it’ll be okay after all.

-o-

Ever since Billy fell, time has been slow. Painfully slow. Every minute has aged Michael a lifetime. But now that Billy’s back, it’s all moving too fast to keep up.

In fact, Michael can’t even remember how he got here. He remembers breaking out of the annex, and he remembers the sound of Billy’s voice. He remembers seeing the broken form at the bottom of the hill and rolling Billy over and holding him in his arms.

He remembers Billy’s eyes opening, Casey checking for internal injuries. He remembers Rick’s steadfast presence and Clack calling for backup. And the paramedics and the hospital and the doctors and _Billy._

He’d looked horrible when they got him here. Face gray and bloody, each breath a garbled mess. His lips had been turning blue, and the monitors had chirped readily. It was bad, Michael knew. But considering that Michael’s spent the last day thinking Billy was dead, he’s too aware that it could be worse.

Yet, in the waiting room, Michael’s not sure how to call this better. Because Michael’s spent the last day thinking Billy was dead; Billy’s spent the last day struggling against the elements and his own broken body to get back to them. If Michael hadn’t left the annex...

In this, it’s a relief. It’s a heady, overwhelming relief that leaves Michael breathless and shaky. Billy’s _alive._ Against all odds, the Scot survived the fall and made it back to them. He’s hurt, but they’ll all go home together.

And then, it’s guilt. Because Billy’s alive -- no thanks to him. Casey had wanted to go back out; Rick had gone damn near catatonic just trying to make Billy’s death parse. And Michael had simply planned and executed the perfect way to leave Billy behind.

To leave Billy to die.

He’d given Casey space; he’d been Rick’s shoulder to cry on.

And he’d left Billy to die a slow and agonizing death.

Even now, in the waiting room, Michael’s just as useless as he was before. Casey has gone silent, so still that he almost looks like a statue as he stares his anger right through Michael. Rick’s snapped out of his shock, and has taken up Casey’s pacing, marking an uneven course across the room, checking the clock, checking the corridor, looking for anything to do.

They don’t say anything.

They don’t have to.

Billy let go of the rope, but Michael let go of all the things that mattered. This is his fault.

This is _his fault._

He’s weak and shaky, but there’s nothing to be done for it. Instead, he drops his head into his hand and closes his eyes, squeezing them shut against tears he doesn’t deserve to cry.

And to make it worse, he can still hear Billy.  
 _  
I could lie to you and tell you that I’m not afraid, but you know better.  
_  
Michael knows better.

At least, he should.

He just wishes he did. His team trusts him, and he let them down. He let Billy fall; he almost left Billy to die. Billy could still die.

Stomach fluttering, Michael looks up blearily, hoping for some kind of change, some kind of hope.

But Rick’s still walking, wiping his palms on his sweatpants. Casey’s still staring, eyes boring into Michael’s head, almost looking to his very soul.

And Billy’s still not there. He’s not wandering through the wilderness; he’s not smashed against the rocks. He’s in an operating room, he’s probably got his stomach cut open as the doctors try to save his life.

He could be dying. 

Michael doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know _anything._ And he doesn’t trust himself to even pretend.

The guilt almost destroys him, and he drops his head again, closing his eyes because he’s just too terrified to look anymore.

-o-

In the dark, there’s no up and there’s no down. Billy’s tumbling through oblivion, head over heels, flipped and twisted until he’s not sure which way is which. In fact, he’s not even sure he’s still alive.

Except that fear of falling. That’s all there is that makes him know he’s alive. If he’s scared, then he’s not dead yet. He’s still waiting for impact...

Then, it hurts. It hurt before, but he’s aware of it now more than before. He’s moving and someone is talking, and then a light shines into his eyes--

He flinches, but he can’t turn away. The voices are louder, but the warm familiarity of his team is gone. These are strangers, and they poke and they prod and his body seizes up in desperation but they don’t let him move.

He’s alive, though. He’s still breathing, even if he’s not sure how the air is moving in and out of his chest. That fact is an uncertain truth, leaving him unsettled as he fumbles with oblivion again. He’s still waiting for impact, still waiting for the ground to come rushing up and to make this struggle meaningless.

Still, it’s for the right reasons. He remembers that. He remembers his team on the cliff, and he knows why this matters. Just like leaving MI6 mattered. Just like every other fall before that. A fall from grace is long and hard; it’s cold and scary, but Billy knows it’s the right thing to do.

And the fact is, Billy is scared of heights but maybe he’s not scared of falling. Because he’s in pain and he’s tired and he’s ready to be done, but the fact is he doesn’t regret so much of this. He doesn’t regret letting go; his team survived. He doesn’t completely regret his exile from England because he did things for the right reasons. And it brought him to his team.

It always comes back to his team. Impact hurts, but some falls are worth it.

The trick is, of course, knowing when to let go.

And knowing when to just hold on.

Billy’s not sure what’s happening -- he’s not sure where his team is -- but somehow he knows one thing, even through the disorientation and the pain and all the rest--  
 _  
Hold on. Just a little longer.  
_  
And Billy does.

-o-

As team leader, Michael’s always naturally taken point. When prepping for a mission, he always makes sure their emergency IDs list him as the next of kin. This is as much about control as it is responsibility. Michael doesn’t trust anyone else with the well being of his team.

Of course, this time, he’s not even sure he trusts himself, and when the doctor explains what happened, Michael almost wants to start running again.

The point is, though, that Billy’s alive. The doctor -- who’s using a nurse to translate into English -- makes that clear from the start. That makes it a little easier.

But not a lot.

Because Billy’s alive. And there’s no way he should be.

“He suffered a wide range of broken bones and fractures, especially in his legs and arms. The fact that he was able to run to safety is remarkable, though it did do further orthopedic damage,” the nurse explains, pausing for the doctor to continue. “There are some hairline fractures in his pelvic region that are most concerning to us, which is why he’s in traction for the time being. With rest and subsequent therapy, there is a strong possibility that he will regain full mobility over time.”

Michael takes a shaky breath. He’s in this meeting alone. Since Billy’s not conscious he can’t approve the transmission of patient information to people outside his next of kin. Rick had looked hurt at being left behind when the doctor escorted Michael to a conference room; Casey had just look infuriated.

“The head injuries are moderate and we’re monitoring the swelling in his brain, which seems to be under control for the time being,” she continues. “There is some swelling along the spinal cord, but he’s thankfully free from significant spinal damage.”

That sounds suspiciously like good news. Michael braces himself for the other shoe to fall.

The nurse takes a breath, nodding at the doctor before looking at Michael. “The most pressing of his injuries, however, was the internal bleeding. The impact caused a small bleed in his stomach, and the time he went without treatment allowed the bleed to get quite advanced. We’ve had to transfuse him extensively and he became extremely hypovolemic during the operation. We believe we’ve managed to control the bleeding, but his condition is still very precarious as he heals. The surgery was invasive, and he is extremely critical at this moment.”

It shouldn’t surprise Michael, especially not on this mission. Impact is everything.

The nurse’s expression softens and she leans forward intently. “His odds are uncertain, but this should not be so disheartening,” she tells him. “Your friend fell from a great height. There are only a few stories of people surviving that fall, only one of which has been documented. He’s already beat the odds. He clearly has something worth holding on to.”

It’s spoken as comfort, but it nearly rips Michael’s heart out. If anyone has the will to survive, it’s Billy. There aren’t many agents he knows of who could survive what he has, to get kicked out of one country and fight the good fight in another even with the disgrace. Billy may be lazy and careless in his personal life, but he’s all fight in the field.

He hadn’t wanted to let go.

But for Michael and Rick and Casey...

Billy had done it for them. Michael just has to hope he can return the favor.

Numbly, he thanks the doctor. He knows he needs to go inform Casey and Rick, but he’s not ready for that yet. Besides, he’s been there for Casey and Rick as best he can over the last two days. Now it’s time to be there for Billy.

In the ICU, Billy looks horrible. The bruising on his face has darkened, leaving him looking sickly pale in contrast. His chest is securely wrapped and there’s a bulky bandage covering part of his stomach. There’s a strange contraption positioned about his waist, and both of his legs and one arm is casted. He’s still connected to the ventilator, which whooshes expectantly while the nurse promises to check on him soon.

Standing there, Billy looks all wrong. He looks small and weak. Like he has nothing left.

And Michael worries maybe he doesn’t. Billy fell off a cliff; he ran through the wilderness for over a day. If Billy’s given everything he has, maybe there’s nothing left to hold on with. Maybe there’s no choice but to fall.

Michael can’t believe that. He won’t.

He moves forward, reaching down to grasp Billy’s limp hand in his. Mindful of Billy’s injuries, he squeezes gently but firmly.

“Don’t you dare let go,” he says, unable to stop the tears from spilling over his cheeks. He takes a shuddering breath. “Whatever you do, this time, just don’t let go.”

It’s not easy, but it’s what needs to be done. If Billy will hold on this time, there’s no way Michael’s ever letting go.

-o-

Falling always happens fast. It’s a rush and whirlwind; he inhales and then it’s over.

Getting up, on the other hand, is a slow and laborious process. It took him months to find his footing at the CIA, and he still hasn’t pulled himself out of his mess in the UK. 

As for this, Billy’s not sure how much time he’s spent fighting against the dark, but he’s aware of the slow ascension to awareness. The darkness is cloying, and the pain threatens to pull him back, but Billy doesn’t quit, even if he wants to sometimes. Even when he opens his eyes, it’s not exactly clarity, and it takes a few minutes before he realizes that he has, in fact, done it.

“Billy?”

Billy breathes in, trying to ground himself. He blinks his eyes a few times -- clearing away the thickness of sleep as best he can -- and when he rolls his head to find the source of the voice, the darkness almost threatens to take him again. As it is, the small movement makes his chest tight and his vision tunnel. He wants to cough, but it takes too much work and he can’t muster the energy.

His eyes slowly focus and the figure next to him takes shape.

“Billy?” Michael asks again, leaning closer. “You with me?”

It seems like a stupid question, but given how much trouble Billy is having keeping his eyes open, he reconsiders that. Besides, Michael looks horrible. He has the makings of a beard on his chin and his face is haggard. His clothing is wrinkled and he is generally unkempt, which means that this is perhaps no time to joke.

With effort, Billy swallowed, doing his best to ignore the parched feeling in his throat. He has to work to build up enough saliva to speak, and even when he does, his tongue feels like sandpaper as he opens his mouth. “Think so,” he murmurs, the words strained.

Michael’s face breaks into a grin. “That’s great,” he says, clearly enthusiastic. Then, he hesitates just a little, reaching out and squeezing Billy’s arm. “I know it’s probably a little painful right now, but you’re doing really well. You’ve got all the doctors blown away.”

Somehow, Billy finds that hard to believe, given how pathetic he feels. He’s the idiot who dropped himself off a cliff and then didn’t have the common sense to die. He’d stumbled through the wilderness with the utmost determination, but now that he’s here, in the hospital, it occurs to him that he doesn’t remember exactly how his team found him. His eyes lock on Michael’s with new intensity. “How...?”

Michael’s smile falters, and he looks unusually shaky. “What do you remember?”

Billy remembers more than he wants to. He remembers the freefall; he remembers running. He remembers his team. “The fall,” he says, the words still taxing. “Running.”

Michael’s face retains its composure, but Billy knows the other man well enough to see that it’s not easy for him. “You ran nearly five miles,” he says. “The doctors don’t even know quite how you did it, considering how many fractures you had. You passed out not even a mile from the annex.”

Billy struggles to keep his eyes open. “You found me?”

This time, Michael can’t quite keep it together. His expression wavers and his shoulders fall. “It was luck,” he says, the words almost breaking. Michael looks close to tears. “I didn’t come looking for you. I almost didn’t -- we almost -- you almost--” He cuts off and takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Billy.”

Billy blinks, trying to get his mind around that one. Billy worked hard to get back to his friends; he’d never expected them to come. There’d been no reason. He shakes his head. “You couldn’t know--”

Michael’s breath caught, and he shook his head. “I should have checked,” he says. “It was stupid and it was selfish not to go back for you. I was going to send a recovery team back, but they would have been too late. You took the fall for us, and I was just going to leave you there.”

Billy’s brow furrows. He’s only seen Michael this upset a few times since they’ve met. Once, after Simms. Once, in the wake of his divorce. Nothing else.

In the States, Billy would joke and cajole, pick a few choice words and take Michael out to get good and drunk. Here, though, it’s all Billy can do to shift his splinted arm, turning it over so he’s grasping Michael’s wrist. He doesn’t have much strength, but he holds on, steady until Michael finally looks at him. 

Billy has to wet his lips, trying in vain to lubricate his throat again. “I fell off a cliff,” he says carefully. “No one was more surprised than me when I woke up.”

It’s almost more than he can take, and the words leave him exhausted. But he needs to hang on a little longer, just so Michael understands. That this isn’t his fault. That it’s no one’s fault. That Billy made a choice, and he’s okay with the consequences -- as long as Michael and the rest of his team are, too.

Michael looks like he wants to argue. Michael’s never one to admit defeat, so Billy wonders just how hard his team grieved for him during the time they thought he was dead. He’d let go to save them, but this doesn’t feel like the victory he was hoping for.

Michael’s eyes are bright and he looks away. “I just...you fought so hard and I gave up,” he says, looking up again. His expression is nothing short of tortured. “I gave up.”

“Good,” Billy says with the last of his fleeting strength. He tightens his grip just a bit. “When I let go, I wanted you to let go, too.”

Michael’s breathing hitches again, and he clenches his jaw. He doesn’t protest, though. Instead, he nods. “Okay,” he says, then turns his hand slightly to grip Billy’s wrist back. He swallows, his fingers squeezing again. “Okay.”

It’s not much, but it’s a start, and as Billy slips back into unconsciousness, his grip is still locked with Michael’s into the darkness and beyond.

-o-

The doctors are exuberant in helping Billy, and it’s all he can do to talk them out of using Billy for a medical textbook. Apparently fall survivors are rare and noteworthy, and the way Billy is bouncing back is impressive.

In some ways, Michael understands. It is impressive. It seems like just yesterday that he watched Billy presumably fall to his death. And he doesn’t even know how to chart the time after that: the day of grief, losing it during extraction, finding Billy’s broken body on the hills beyond the annex. And the waiting in the hospital, sitting through the surgeries and keeping a tense vigil at Billy’s side as the days went by. 

Despite the doctors’ enthusiasm, Michael is too well aware of how close they came. Billy required extensive abdominal surgery, and they had to go back in again to correct a bleed they missed the first time. They’d kept Billy cinched up tight from the waist down to minimize any further damage to his bones, but the scans were showing a good recovery so far. And then the swelling in his brain had gone down and his ribs were starting to heal and Billy woke up.

Billy woke up. Tired but coherent; hurting but okay. Awake enough to offer Michael absolution.

Absolution Michael needed, no doubt, but absolution he didn’t know how to accept. He still wants to refuse it, but he’s denied Billy too much on this mission; he won’t take that away from him, too. 

He’ll take Billy’s forgiveness -- for Billy’s sake.

But that doesn’t fix everything. In fact, that doesn’t fix most of it. There’s still the reality that Casey won’t look at him, that Rick _can’t_ look at him, and that Higgins is calling twice a day, demanding updates and reports.

And there’s still the little detail that Michael failed as team leader. Billy can forgive him, but nothing changes his multiple lapses in judgment.

Nothing fixes it. He can say sorry; he can analyze what went wrong. But in the end, it’s pretty simple. Michael left one of his own to die, and there’s nothing he can do to make that right.

But there is something he can do to make sure it doesn’t happen again.

He’s waiting outside of Billy’s room when Casey and Rick show up. He’s put them up in a motel, insisting on staying the nights with Billy so they can split up the day. Usually he times it so they can duck out with nothing more than a fleeting glance at each other, but not today.

Head high, he looks Casey right in the eye as he approaches. It’s Martinez, though, who speaks. “Is something wrong?” he asks, face going ashen. “Is Billy okay? You could have called--”

Michael shakes his head. “Billy’s fine.”

Rick is still wide eyed, even as his eyes lock with Michael for what feels like the first time in weeks. “Are you sure?” he asks, and he sounds so damn young and desperate that Michael can barely stand it.

Which is why he knows without a doubt he’s making the right choice. “Relax,” Michael says. “Chart’s on the door if you need to check. They’re talking about moving him out of the ICU soon.”

“But what about the traction?” Rick asks, moving toward the chart and peeking at it. “I mean, he fell off a cliff--”

Rick’s so distracted about Billy, that he doesn’t seem to realize what’s coming. Casey, however, has had his eyes on Michael this entire time. His expression darkens, and he tilts his head. “You’ve made a decision,” he says, breaking the silence between them.

Michael nods, not looking away. “I have.”

Rick turns back toward them. “About Billy’s care? Because I think we should get another consult--”

Michael shakes his head. “About the team.”

Rick goes still. “But they said he’d be able to have a full recovery--”

Michael sighs. “It’s not about Billy.”

Rick’s brow furrows. “But shouldn’t this be about Billy? I mean, he fell off a cliff and we _left him--_ ”

“I know,” Michael interjects, a little forcefully. “And that’s why I’m about to say this--”

“Say _what,_ ” Rick says. “I mean, all this time, you haven’t said anything. You told us to let go and then Billy’s alive and it’s like nothing happened--”

“You’re quitting,” Casey interrupts plainly, eyes still fixed on Michael.

Michael is not surprised by the conclusion. Because it’s the same one he reached a few days ago, and he’s just been working up the courage to tell his team. 

Michael nods. “I am.”

Rick’s mouth falls open. “You’re quitting the Agency?” he asks, positively dumbfounded.

Michael glances around, hoping no one has heard the outburst. “No, not yet anyway,” he says. “I have certain skills that wouldn’t do much good elsewhere.”

Rick looks a little relieved.

“But I am resigning from the ODS,” he continues, unyielding.

Rick’s jaw drops again, more dramatically this time. Casey regards him skeptically.

Michael sighs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense,” he says. “I’m team leader. These calls come back on me, and I’ve got a track record of being wrong. This isn’t the first time I’ve left a teammate behind to an unjust fate. But I can promise you both it will be the last. Higgins has wanted to get rid of me for a while, so I figure some deep cover overseas will be just the ticket to solving all this.”

His delivery is perfect, even better than he’d rehearsed in his head. It’s simple; it’s logical; it’s feasible.

It’s the way it has to be.

“Anyway,” Michael says, shrugging a little. “I just wanted you to hear it from me. And to just...tell you I’m sorry. I may have left Billy, but I let you all down. I know an apology isn’t worth a lot, but I hope that my actions will show you just how serious I am.”

For a moment, Casey and Rick just stare. It’s a little awkward, but the fact is, Michael hasn’t thought this far ahead. He’s planned his speech, but he always sort of counted on making some grand exit and having that be that.

This is just weird.

“Well,” he says, smiling feebly. “I’ll let you go see him.”

He moves to leave, but Casey snorts. “So that’s it?” he asks, incredulous.

Michael stops. “I told you, I’m sorry. I gave you my resignation. You want me to quit the Agency, too? Is that what you want, Malick?”

Casey scoffs. “No,” he says tersely. “I want you to stop being an idiot and, more than that, stop leaving your team behind.”

It’s an insult and then...it’s not.

Michael makes a face. “I made a mistake--”

“We all made a mistake,” Casey says sharply. 

“So you’ve been staring at me with deadly intent for the last few days--”

Casey rolls his eyes. “Because that’s what I do,” he mutters. “You know how I am -- or you should. I channel my emotions into other, more useful mediums. Since I don’t have anything to do right now, apparently glaring at you keeps me from punching holes through the walls.”

There’s some sense to that. But Michael shakes his head. “It’s not that simple--”

“Of course it is,” Casey says. “Strip away the sentimentality, and it’s exactly that simple. Billy fell off a cliff. By his own choosing. There’s no realistic way he should have survived that. If I had thought for a minute he was alive, you never could have talked me out of going out there. I thought he was dead. _We all did._ You can’t be expected to predict statistical impossibilities.”

Michael’s been ready for a lot of things. But forgiveness...

He’s really not sure what to do. 

“I was going to leave without the body,” Michael reminds them.

“Yeah, and have a recovery team out there the minute we were in the air,” Casey replies. “I’m angry, but I’m not stupid. And I’m not even angry at you.”

“I’ll admit,” Rick jumps in, “I haven’t known quite what to think. Part of me, I think, blames you. But then the rest of me just wants to thank you. If you hadn’t run out when you did--” He trails off, shaking his head. “It’s like you knew.”

Dumb luck, Michael thinks, but his throat is too tight to speak. And he’ll cry with Billy, but not here. Definitely not with Malick.

Rick shrugs. “It’s all a miracle, really,” he says. “I mean, I never put much stock in that sort of thing growing up, but I don’t know what else to call it. Billy survived the fall. He ran all that way back and then somehow you knew to go out and find him when it mattered most. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.”

Miracles. The impossible. Two things Michael’s never put much stock.

Two things he can’t deny now. Because Billy’s alive, and he’s going to be okay. And his team is still here, and they forgive him.

Michael didn’t come looking for absolution, and he hadn’t been prepare to take it even if it was offered, but now that it’s on the table...

It’s hard to resist.

But still. Forgiveness doesn’t change what he did. It doesn’t change how it feels. It doesn’t change the doubt festering in his stomach, the guilt that churns every time he looks at Billy. It doesn’t stop the nightmares, of waking up in a cold sweat, looking down for Billy and finding _nothing._

He swallows, tries to breathe.

Casey purses his lips and then seems to resign himself. “Look,” he says. “We almost lost Billy on this one. Somehow, we didn’t. So I don’t know why we’d go about risking the rest of the team in the aftermath when we actually got the chance to do it better the next time.”

Rick nods earnestly. “Together.”

Miracles. The impossible.

The ODS has always been a team about defying the odds. They’re not perfect, of course, and Michael almost left Billy behind to prove it. And maybe someday their luck will run out. Michael’s still not sure how to lead a team when he can’t even trust himself.

But looking at Rick, looking at Casey, thinking about Billy, he thinks maybe it’s time to find out.  
 __  
Hold on, Michael remembers.

Billy hasn’t let go. Neither has Casey or Rick.

Michael owes it to all of them to just keep holding on.

-o-

For as much as Billy’s been through, he might have thought spending time with people tending on him hand and foot would be easy. But the truth is, Billy’s lazy but he also strives to be self reliant. It’s the most American trait he has, and it’s actually his team that challenges him to ease up on that a bit.

It’s hard, though. To be stuck in a bed. The traction is uncomfortable and the total stillness feels like torture. When he closes his eyes, he’s stuck on his back, and when he dreams of freefall, he can hardly even startle awake sufficiently to shake the memories away.

Which is why this is really the hardest part. Falling is easy; impact hurts. His adrenaline-fueled desperation had been painful.

Recovery is just slow. 

It’s a tedious climb where the minutes are strung out and accentuated by his own helplessness. Especially when his team is hurting just as much as he is.

Physically, no. Billy bore the brunt of this mission, which was really the point. Billy’s not always running about looking for a cause to martyr himself for, but when someone in the team has to draw the short stick, he’s willing to do it. Because falling is hard but watching someone else slip away...well, Billy knows that’s harder.

In this, the fall has tested them all. Billy’s the only one that hit the canyon floor, but they’ve all slipped more than a little. Billy doesn’t blame them -- how could he? -- but he knows their guilt for not coming back to look for him is almost more devastating that the force of impact had been for him. Billy’s bone are broken, but something much deeper is fractured in his friends.

It’s ironic, perhaps. Billy’s the one laid up in the hospital with more injuries than he can catalogue, but he’s the one who can help the rest of them back up.

Still, recovery is slow. For all of them.

The harder it is, the more Billy works to return things to the status quo. And not just in terms of his injuries.

“They have the worst motivation of any physical therapists I’ve ever met!” Billy complains in true melodramatic fashion. He’s able to sit up now and he’s started walking again. A little more, and they’ll let him go home. He’s pushing their expectations as best he can, and he doesn’t tell his team how exhausted he is.

Michael smirks, and Casey rolls his eyes. Rick, however, is dutifully stoic. “What motivation do you need?” he asks. “You want to get back to duty.”

“Certainly,” Billy says. “But there are short term benefits that can be quite motivating.”

Rick shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“He wants there to be hot nurses,” Casey interjects blandly. He sighs, shaking his head. “Not that I don’t appreciate beauty from time to time, but I think such things are distracting when trying to attain true physical perfection.”

Michael scoffs. “This is Billy,” he quips. “Since when has perfection been one of his concerns?”

“Hey!” Billy protests. “Need I remind you that I am suffering greatly here!”

“I might believe you were you not still on the good drugs,” Casey says.

“Yeah, you’ve got to knock back a bit if we’re going to get home soon,” Michael reminds him.

Billy settles back a bit, pursing his lips. “Well, I did tell you that you have my permission to go home without me,” he says. “I’m sure Higgins is quite anxious to have us back.”

“Higgins is always anxious,” Michael mutters.

“Which is more reason to stay here and put up with your antics,” Casey agrees.

“Besides,” Rick adds. “Clack and Gillet already transferred the bulk of the intelligence back home. We’ve had some video debriefs from the annex.”

They’re taking care of business, Billy thinks with some approval. That means things are getting better.

But considering how badly they’re hovering, Billy knows they’re not there yet.

He shrugs diffidently. “Still, I’m sure we don’t need all of you here,” he says.

The idea of separating is practical, and Billy knows it. He also wouldn’t be offended if they took him up on it. Heaven knows he feels self conscious enough with his team doting over his every need and whim. It’s awkward as hell and a constant reminder of his own failings and fall on this mission. Billy can pick himself back up with the best of them, but that doesn’t mean that he likes pity. He knows his team means well, but the best way to move on is to well and truly move on. No pity; no more apologies. Just life as normal.

Which is why he is relieved when his team doesn’t fail him now. In all of this, his team has done what he’s expected of them, what he’s needed of them. Michael let him fall, and led the team to safety. They protected each other and preserved the intel. Billy had had no delusions to the contrary.

Now, they need to banter and they need to joke and they need to go home.

Together.

Rick pales a little and Casey goes a bit still. It’s Michael who shakes his head. “No,” he says, voice a little flat and it’s as close to an order as it gets when it comes to the ODS. “We left you behind once on this mission. We’re sure as hell not going to do it again.”

There’s a bit of raw emotion that is unsettling, but it’s a necessary, pointed and strangely comforting thing. While his team let him fall, they never actually let him go. Billy stumbled through the wilderness with naught another soul, but he was never truly alone. And he knows that now better than ever.

When one of them falls, they all fall. And when they get back up, the do it together.

Billy nods, unable to hold back a grin. He’s still a little scared, he has to admit. He’s scared he might not recover fully; he’s scared he may not be the man he was. But this time, it’s a choice to live. To be there for his team. Which really, is no choice at all.

“Well, then,” he says, bracing himself just a little as he lets out a breath and holds his teammates’ eyes. “Let’s go.”


End file.
